"What in the seven hells is going on here?" the King roared. "Something like this, in my own castle."
"You, you, you, and the rest of you, out. We don't need a crowd." He pointed around the room, and the guards withdrew, leaving only a handful behind.
King Robert, Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Renly, Eddard, and Littlefinger. In the blink of an eye, only five men remained in the study.
"What's gotten into your boy, Eddard? I don't remember him being so hotheaded." The King fixed his gaze on him.
"I bring a formal accusation. Lord Petyr's words have slandered my honor, and I ask that he be punished according to the law," Eddard said firmly. "And I ask Your Grace to forgive Jon's rashness."
"Is that so?" The King frowned. In his mind, Littlefinger was always a jester of sorts, the kind who spoke too freely without meaning real harm.
"Brother, I attend the Small Council often. If I recall correctly, Lord Petyr has more than once boasted of taking the maidenhood of two Tully ladies. Naturally, he would never say such things in front of Lord Jon, but plenty in the Red Keep have heard it. Strictly speaking, that is indeed an insult," Lord Renly said, stepping forward.
Littlefinger froze in shock. Renly had often sided with him in court, yet now he was the first to turn on him. Still, it made sense. In Renly's eyes, a lord carried far more weight than a Master of Coin.
Ser Barristan remained silent. The whole matter was strange, but politics did not always follow reason.
"Is this true, Lord Petyr?" the King asked, his voice cold, like a bull on the verge of charging.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. Please forgive me." Littlefinger dropped to his knees at once, abandoning any attempt at denial. He bowed first to Eddard, then to the King.
Fear gripped him. For the first time, he sensed real danger. The wealth and influence he relied on were never truly his own, only borrowed from greater powers.
Power was power. It crushed everything.
In the past, Eddard had been bound by his own scruples. But once he stepped outside them, he would show no restraint.
Blood began to seep from Littlefinger's brow as he struck his head against the floor. King's Landing was not his foundation. The Vale was safer. Lysa… that foolish woman.
"Petyr, you ought to learn to hold your tongue. Lord Jon's restraint is a virtue, and Lord Eddard has every right to be angered. Lady Catelyn is his wife, and the mother of Prince Joffrey's betrothed. Lady Lysa is Lord Jon's widow. Neither is someone you may mock or slander." The King seized Littlefinger and hauled him to his feet.
The contrast between them was stark, the King's massive frame towering over Littlefinger's slight body like the sun over a star.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
The King struck him across the face several times. Though he had grown fat and heavy, the force behind those blows was still formidable.
Colors burst behind Littlefinger's eyes, a whirl of light and shapes spinning through his vision.
"I was spreading lies, Your Grace," he said miserably, waiting for judgment.
"We are friends, Lord Eddard. For old times' sake…" Once he caught his breath, Littlefinger turned to Eddard, pleading. But Eddard said nothing.
"Renly, how should this be handled?" the King asked.
"Slander and defamation of a high lord… if it were a commoner, his tongue would be cut out. But Lord Petyr is himself a high lord, so the final decision should rest with Your Grace," Lord Renly replied after a moment's thought, offering no clear stance.
"Then I'll decide. I think this should satisfy you, Eddard. And you, keep your son in check. Don't let him run wild again." The King turned back to Littlefinger. "As for you, you keep your post as Master of Coin. But for now, you won't be returning to your residence. There's a more fitting place for you. The dungeons of the Red Keep. You can come out once you've learned to keep that mouth of yours shut."
"That is Your Grace's mercy." Littlefinger felt as though he had been spared. As long as he kept his life and his tongue, there would be another chance.
He could see the hesitation in Eddard, torn between leaving and staying. If the King offered even a little more goodwill, Eddard would choose to remain in King's Landing once again.
As long as you stay, your death is certain, Stark, Littlefinger thought bitterly.
"Thank you for Your Grace's wisdom," Eddard said quietly. He hated himself. Hated that he lacked that reckless, unyielding resolve. Something still held him back, and because of it, he had chosen to compromise once again.
"Come, Lord Petyr," Renly said, looking at Littlefinger. Someone would see him to where he belonged.
"Then I have my thanks," Littlefinger replied. Having escaped disaster, a trace of color finally returned to his face.
"Think carefully, Stark," the King said, looking at Eddard. His anger had not fully faded, but his tone had softened.
A moment later, the King and his retinue departed, and the farce came to an end.
"My lord, the ships we need…" Jon said, looking at Eddard.
"That matter… set it aside for now. As for that brothel, I would not have gone without a lead, but Littlefinger has given me one. I think it's best I see it for myself." Eddard sighed.
"But if you go, we'll lose more time…"
"You're right, Jon. But there are things I cannot let go." Eddard looked at him, suddenly weary to the bone. His whole life had been a burden of duty. If he simply walked away now, he would be failing his old friend.
...
Rain fell over King's Landing that night, and darkness swallowed the city whole.
The brothel Littlefinger had hinted at was easy enough to find, though Eddard had never discovered it before.
It was a refined establishment, frequented by nobles and highborn lords. The owner was a woman from the Summer Isles, tall and graceful, her skin dark as ink, dressed in feathered silks.
Eddard soon found the girl he was looking for. She was young, but not particularly beautiful.
The King had never been particular about women. To him, bedding them was as ordinary as eating or sleeping. Great beauties pleased him, but he would just as readily take a barmaid, a servant, or a prostitute.
Eddard studied the woman. She had clearly once been untouched. In a brothel of this caliber, such girls could always be found, provided one could pay. She had pale red hair and freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. When she loosened her clothes to nurse the child, he noticed the same freckles across her breasts.
"I named her Barra," she said as the baby suckled. "My lord, she looks just like him, doesn't she? She has his nose, and his hair…"
"She does," Eddard said. He had already run his fingers through the infant's soft, dark hair, smooth as silk against his skin. He dimly recalled that Robert's first child had the same fine black hair. That girl had been raised at the Eyrie, back when Robert would still spend time playing with her.
Were all of Robert's children like this? Eddard wondered. At least, all the bastards he knew of were. Stannis and Lord Arryn had taken great interest in these children, once searching through the streets and alleys of King's Landing.
"My lord, when you see him, if it pleases you… tell him. Tell him how beautiful she is." The girl's mother looked at Eddard with hope shining in her eyes.
"I will," Eddard said.
But his heart felt heavy.
This was his burden. Robert could swear eternal love and forget it before nightfall, but a Stark kept his promises. He thought of the vow he had made to Lyanna as she lay dying, and all he had sacrificed to keep it.
Robert was paying for his folly.
King's Landing was slipping into Lannister hands. And that distant bastard… perhaps he was already sharpening his blade. Perhaps he no longer cared for the proper order of succession, but would instead rise with the remnants of the Targaryens and claim something new.
A father killing his son would be an even greater tragedy than brothers turning on each other. Eddard's heart pounded.
He knew the old tale of Winterfell. A Lord Stark had once slain his own father, Bael the Bard, and in the end, the Boltons had flayed him.
No matter what happened, Eddard would not allow such kinslaying to come to pass.
"Please tell him I've never been with anyone else. My lord, I swear it by the New Gods and the Old Gods. Shataya said I could stay here for half a year, take care of the child, and see whether he comes back. So please tell him I'm waiting for him, will you? I don't want gold or jewels, I just want him. He's always treated me very well, truly."
He's treated you well. The thought rang hollow in Eddard's mind, something that only held meaning before waking.
"Child, I will tell him. I promise you, Barra will never lack food or clothing."
At that, she smiled. The smile was fearful, yet sweet, and it cut into Eddard's heart like a blade.
Riding through the rain-soaked night, Eddard saw Jon Snow following behind him, almost the mirror of his younger self. If the gods so despised bastards, he thought bitterly, then why fill men with desire?
"How many is this, Jon?" Eddard asked softly.
"The fourth, my lord," Jon replied.
Eddard knew of these children well enough. One at Storm's End, one across the Narrow Sea, one in King's Landing, and another in the Vale.
"This can't be all of them," Eddard thought. Knowing Robert, if there were this many in the open, there were surely more hidden. The Arryns and Stannis taking such an interest in these bastards made him think all the more carefully.
"I've heard there are others," Jon said as he rode up beside him. "Three years ago, when the King went to the Westerlands for Lord Tywin's tourney, he had twins with a maid at Casterly Rock. Cersei had the children killed, and the mother sold to passing slave traders. House Lannister couldn't tolerate such a disgrace in their own backyard."
Eddard said nothing, his thoughts heavy. It was that throne that had changed everything.
The rain intensified, and a chill seeped into his bones. It stung his eyes and hammered against the ground. Black torrents rushed down from the hills.
"My lord!" Jon shouted, alarm clear in his voice.
In an instant, the street was filled with soldiers.
"It's the Lions!" Jon recognized them at once. The situation had turned dire.
They wore chainmail over leather, with iron gauntlets and knee guards, steel helmets crested with golden lions. Their cloaks clung wetly to their backs. There were at least ten of them, standing in formation, blocking the road with swords and spears in hand.
Jon wheeled his horse around, only to find more men behind them, sealing off any escape.
Jory's sword rang as it left its sheath.
"Those who block our path die!"
Jon tightened his grip on his weapon. Unease crept in. His armor wasn't properly secured, and they didn't have the strength to break through.
"The wolves are howling," the leader said. Rain streamed down his face. "Shame it's such a small pack."
"You're blocking Lord Stark's path!" Jon shouted.
"Lord Stark? A pity this isn't King's Landing. Stark is nothing more than the King's former Hand now."
The Kingslayer stepped forward from the ranks, clad in golden armor atop a red warhorse. The red-cloaked soldiers parted neatly to either side.
Jaime looked at Eddard.
"My lord, you should know why I'm here. Lord Stark, you remember my brother, don't you? He came with us to Winterfell. Blond hair, mismatched eyes, sharp tongue, short."
Eddard nodded.
"I remember him clearly. That was with my permission."
Jaime let out a cold laugh.
"Good. That puts my mind at ease."
He urged his horse forward, drawing his gilded sword and idly waving it before Eddard, as if about to thrust it into his chest, yet holding back.
"My brother came to no harm, fortunately. But that's no reason for me to let you off, Lord Stark."
"My brother is back," Jaime continued, laughing wildly in the pouring rain, "but I still intend to give you a little surprise."
"Kill their horses. Kill that retainer. And there's a boy... ah, I remember you. Lord Eddard's bastard, close to my brother. Boy, you've nothing to do with this. Get out of here."
Jon remained on horseback, already leaning forward, ready to charge.
"No!" Eddard shouted.
Jon spurred his horse ahead. The Kingslayer sneered. A red cloak's spear lashed out, piercing straight into the horse's belly.
Jon rolled cleanly off, hitting the muddy ground. Fortunately, no bones were broken.
"My lord, dismount!" Jon shouted, weapon in hand as he moved toward Eddard. Facing this group of red cloaks, the horses could fall at any moment.
Jory charged as well, his horse stamping and surging forward, though the terrain was ill-suited for cavalry. He managed to wound one red cloak before the others closed in again.
Eddard drove his horse forward, swinging his longsword. He struck at a red cloak's helmet, but the impact jarred him as much as his opponent. He had never imagined that King's Landing would become a battlefield.
The red cloaks moved like specters, thrusting with spears, slashing with swords. The Kingslayer did not even bother to lift a hand.
Eddard quickly realized something was wrong. The red cloaks did not seem intent on harming him. His horse, however, panicked at the wall of spears. The mud made escape nearly impossible. Blood and chaos churned before him.
Seeing the gleaming line of spear points, Eddard hastily dismounted, slipping into the mud and staining himself all over. His horse, terrified, lost its footing and crashed down with a heavy thud, sending a chill through him.
"Jory, run!" Eddard shouted.
The red cloaks surged forward. First, they hacked at the horse's legs, then their swords came down. Jory was cut down where he stood.
Eddard walked over and knelt, alone, cradling Jory's body.
"What a pitiful Stark," Jaime laughed, as the rain poured on.