Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki and Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

4th Day of the 9th Moon

Eddard Stark

Doing half an hour of meditation just before daybreak for nearly a moon had started showing surprising results. Ned felt his mind become clearer every following day as if a thin fog he had never noticed existed was gone. Even his patience and focus had improved, and he felt calmer despite the turbulent situation in King's Landing.

Mastering his ability to warg proved far harder, however. There was this vague thing in the back of his mind, an odd feeling at the periphery of his awareness that he simply couldn't catch, but at least the wolf dreams got rarer, and he felt more… in control when they happened. Winter seemed even more responsive to his commands, and the Lord of Winterfell found his companion doing his bidding without any signals, as if the direwolf somehow knew what he was thinking.

Vayon knocked on the door, signifying the end of his session. Standing up, Ned stretched, popping away the stiffness from his joints. The riveting caws from beyond his window took up strength, heralding the dawn. The dark birds were all perching outside, around the window sills, gargoyles, and crenellations of the tower and singing their grim melody undisturbed.

The cause for the crows' presence amused Ned greatly. Winter prowled around the tower when bored, chasing away all the cats encroaching on his territory. A fortnight later, all the felines had fled, so the direwolf turned his attention to the mice and rats instead. Yet his shaggy companion had no taste for vermin and left the carcasses by Ned's door, where Walder stood guard. The Giant of Winterfell, however, quickly corralled one of the maids to dispose of the carcasses outside. The lack of cats and the free servings of food promptly attracted a murder of crows.

Ned quickly pulled on his recently made garments and headed down to eat together with Howland and the rest of the men. Truth be told, the attire was of a masterful make, but the silk was so thin he felt naked. Still, it was a compromise Ned was willing to make. The heat was otherwise unbearable even at night, and he had to keep the windows and shutters open lest he awoke in a bed of sweat. Unfortunately, the famous Torrentine Cotton was off-season, and the little on the market was purchased by both the Queen and the King's brother. Ned was not desperate enough to ask them for a batch for his own use.

The 'Small' Hall, exclusive to the Tower of the Hand, was a grave misnomer - it was a long room with a high-vaulted ceiling, and the trestled tables could host about two hundred men. His guardsmen and servants were just beginning to slowly stream in for breakfast.

Winter was already standing vigil just by Ned's chair at the head of the main table, and Howland was waiting at his right. The Lord of Greywater Watch looked tired - the bags under his eyes had grown and had a shade of purple, and even his hair looked a tangled mess.

"You look like shite." Ned grinned at his old friend as he took his seat.

"Aye," Howland groaned. "I almost found one of the thrice-damned rumour-mongers, but the man slipped away a handful of minutes before I managed to arrive at the meeting place."

The endless slew of rumours about Ned had gotten on his nerves, and he had asked his friend to see if he could find the source. In hindsight, Winter's presence here did not do Eddard any favours, especially when the direwolf had entered the city proudly with a bloodied snout fresh from a hunt. But that had been one time, yet the rumours had spread like fire through dry grass.

It turned out that the whispers had assistance; a few elusive parties were seemingly pouring oil into the fires. Reputation was a vain thing, but slander against his good name simply made the Lord of Winterfell uneasy. If anything, his suspicions that plots were afoot had been confirmed.

"So what is it this time?" Ned hummed, hiding his exasperation. "Faceless man? Consorting with devils?"

"Abducting maids and wives to have your way with them," Howland snorted, eliciting a chuckle from the highlord.

"... I thought I was sacrificing them to the tree gods."

"I think this one came around from a spurned handmaid or a lady," the crannog man smiled so widely as if someone had gifted him a Valyrian Steel frog spear. "I lost count of how many you rejected over the last sennight."

Ned couldn't help but groan, "Gods, the southrons have gone crazy from the heat."

Four - four times, Ned had been propositioned, directly or not, for an illicit affair out in the open by maidens who most certainly knew he was a married man. And he had avoided thrice as many, not to mention the horde of proposals for the hands of his children, Jon included. Others take them all; the Lord of Winterfell was happily married with four children and had no need of paramours or any other lovers, nor to pawn off his remaining sons and daughters just yet, damn it!

Howland's face finally lost his cheer as he leaned in and whispered, "They have arrived. Everyone but Karstark and some clansmen. And I'd wager they will soon show up."

It only made sense; Karhold and Last Hearth were the furthest away from King's Landing unless they took a boat, but the Northmen were not prone to travelling by sea. By now, Ned knew there was a substantial amount of Northmen in the city. Along with the hundred and fifty swords he had brought, over six hundred hardy fighters would answer his call. That knowledge, along with the handful of Manderly galleys in the harbour, brought him quite a lot of comfort - if needed, Ned could leave the city swiftly and unimpeded.

"Anything else of note you have noticed in your excursions to the city?" Eddard asked as he poured a goblet of watered-down ale.

"Prince Oberyn Martell was sighted in one of the brothels with his paramour and two of his daughters." Howland shrugged.

Ned paused for a heartbeat as he drank from his goblet before mirroring his friend. "He's of no importance. Although he might make something out of the Horse Races."

Their conversation was interrupted by Tommen's arrival. The boy was punctual as ever, showing up just a moment before the scullions began bringing in trays heavy with food towards the many tables.

"Good morning, Lord Stark, Lord Reed," his voice was mostly clear, but the young golden-haired prince rubbed the sleep away from his eyes. He also eyed Winter with mixed feelings. The direwolf had been relatively friendly with the prince but had chased his cats away, although it was for the better; the felines easily distracted Tommen with their presence. Maybe in the future, the prince could get a newborn kitten and raise it by himself as was proper.

Howland nodded politely while Ned allowed a rare smile to reach his face at the drowsy boy. Now would be a perfect time for a wake-up lesson.

"Good morning, Tommen," Ned paused to grab some bacon, sausage, and eggs before stabbing a roast chicken and slipping it to Winter. "Why was the High Septon unhappy with us when we visited the Sept of Baelor some days ago?"

The young prince's brows scrunched up in thought as he made to grab the same dishes as Ned, albeit in lesser amounts. "He didn't like us much…?"

"Is this a statement or a question?"

Tommen instantly straightened his spine. It was a hard fight to make the boy find his confidence - from time to time, the prince still seemed so… unsure of himself. It would be a long road until the lesson sunk in that mistakes and failures were not a tragedy but something you learn from and that there were times and places for shows of strength.

"He didn't like us much."

The visit to the head of the Faith was not particularly enjoyable, but Eddard had forced himself to find some time for it last week to rein in the last of the troublesome Septons preaching around the city, if nothing else. The High Septon was nothing like the Paragon of the New Gods he was supposed to represent - unless the Seven had a taste for the pleasures of the flesh rivalling Robert.

"Indeed, but why is that?"

Ned took a few moments to savour the taste of bacon as Tommen once again thought furiously. "He dislikes the Old Gods."

"That he does," he agreed. "But it's deeper than that - the High Septon has no quarrel with most Old Gods worshippers. Rather, he has one with me and the royal family in particular. Your sister's wedding was done in the olden way, without any septon to consecrate the union under the Seven."

"It was an insult to the Faith," Tommen concluded, eyes gleaming with understanding, making the Hand nod.

It was one, but not intended; Cersei's demands to drag the High Septon to Winterfell because of Chayle's low standing were outright insulting in their own right, but it only spurred Robert to dismiss the Septons entirely out of impatience.

"The crown owing a substantial amount of debt to the clergy did not help either -" Ned continued, explaining the traps and downsides of relying upon debt to fund your endeavours continuously while devouring a hearty amount of meat. Truth be told, the Lord of Winterfell felt a pang of longing at the sight of Tommen listening with rapt attention as he was munching on the bacon. For good or for bad, his children were all over a thousand miles away, behind the safety of Winterfell's thick walls.

Gods, the boy was still drinking in his every word as if dying of thirst in the Red Mountains. How could a prince, even a spare, be so neglected? It was little wonder that Tommen had found solace in playing with kittens.

At the side, Winter finished the roasted hen, not even leaving the bones behind, and looked at Ned imploringly. The direwolf had not stopped growing yet; he was already bigger than a pony and would only grow larger if the size of his mother was anything to go by. Having a companion the size of a heavy warhorse was a daunting prospect but one Ned couldn't help but relish - Winter's presence was soothing.

Absent-mindedly, Ned felt a tad bloated, as if he had eaten too much. He forked three spiced sausages and slipped them to his still-hungry companion.

Yet instead of devouring them in a heartbeat, Winter sniffed cautiously and began growling at the offered pieces of meat, hackles raised. The bustle of the Small Hall halted forebodingly as suddenly all of the Stark guardsmen looked at the now angry direwolf.

"Ned, Tommen," Howland's voice was filled with urgency and worry as he grabbed the prince's hand, reaching out to add one more sausage to his plate. The Lord of Greywater watch waved over at one of the trestle tables where some of his retinue was dining with the Stark household guard, "Arlyn, get me the strong purgatives, now!"

***

Being poisoned was not a pleasant thing, and being forced to sit in the privy for hours until his stomach and guts had completely emptied was even less so. Missing court with the excuse that he was not feeling too well was readily accepted; it seemed that the king and the councillors oft made a habit of flunking out of their duties, so Ned doing the same had not even raised an eyebrow. Thankfully, there wasn't a council meeting scheduled for today.

The feeling of fear had long since fled and been replaced with fury that somehow burned even through the weakness in his limbs and guts. The cold anger still pulsed beneath his skin, banishing the nausea and hunger that came from the brutal purgative - his life had almost been snuffed out just like that. Worse, Tommen had also become a target, knowingly or unknowingly. The strong purgative had exhausted the young prince, who was now fast asleep in his own quarters, guarded by a dozen of his finest guardsmen. In fact, the whole tower was on high alert.

The only reason he didn't run to the king was that Ned had no proof nor any suspects… for now. Robert was not known for his patience and disdained acts of cowardice, and there was no telling what he would do in his fury. And poison was the weapon of cravens, women, eunuchs, and Dornishmen. Worse, bar the few errant Dornishmen like the Red Viper, King's Landing was almost filled to the brim with the other three.

No, that was not it. The truth was that the Lord of Winterfell had lost faith in both his friend and the king. Robert would simply pick what was easy, not what was right. A disappointing realisation, but mayhaps relying on himself and the other Northmen was for the best.

Ned knew his presence here unnerved many, but he had not wronged a single soul in this city. Now, he was stuck in the Hand's solar, pacing from one end of the room to the other. Even now, Winter's golden eyes were following his every movement; the direwolf had not left his side ever since the morn.

His stomach still hurt, but it was more from the gnawing feeling of emptiness and hunger than anything else. Yet, Ned dared not touch any piece of food just yet.

The door opened, and a tired Vayon entered, along with a worried Jory Cassel and an impassive Howland. It was a mask that looked like it would crack any moment - Ned could easily read his friend, and the Lord of Greywater Watch was weary and furious.

"It was Tears of Lys," the words came with a hiss. Gods, the Crannogman's eyes were bloodshot - whether from exhaustion or lack of sleep.

"...What's that?" Ned couldn't help but rub his neck in confusion - he had almost no knowledge of poisons. Crannogmen, on the other hand, were well-versed in the subject - along with the matters of herbs and healing. There was a reason many of their old foes called them bog devils.

"A subversive substance made by the alchemists of Lys," he could see Howland's vein at the side of the temple throb angrily. "Very rare and costs a small fortune - the poison is rumoured to be clear, odourless, tasteless, and to leave no trace."

"Then how did Winter find it out?"

Howland snorted. "The senses of wolves are sharper than what the minds of men can even begin to comprehend, let alone direwolves. What worries me more is how they knew about your food tester and picked a slow-acting poison. If Winter hadn't sniffed it out, you could be beyond saving by now, purgatives or not."

All Ned could do was grimace as his insides tied themselves in an icy knot. "Did you find out how the poison even got to my sausages?"

The Lord of Winterfell considered himself well protected; his household guards and servants were observant and loyal, so such an attempt that came so close to taking his life was as mortifying as it was baffling.

"Calon has terrible stomach cramps, so it was before it got to him," the crannogman hummed. Calon was the food tester, a young man from the crofter's village near Winterfell.

Ned turned to the distraught Vayon. "How's he faring?"

"His pains have halted, but his stool was bloody," the steward grimaced. "But Aryln said he'll be good after a week of bed rest."

A sigh of relief escaped unbidden - Calon might have been barely a man, but he was taking care of his wife and two young boys. Such a leal young man dying to some cowardly plotters would be unacceptable.

"So," Howland coughed, grabbing their attention. "I checked the other sausages in the larder - and they were not compromised."

"How can you know, Lord Reed?" Vayon countered. "You yourself said the poison leaves no trace."

"Aye, but I had a few guardsmen volunteer to test the ones in stock at random, and none of them caught stomach cramps. Someone must have slipped it through after it was prepared but before it was served…"

"A traitor in the kitchen?!"

"Some of the supplies are sourced from the Red Keep's pantry once every fortnight. Those could have been compromised, too," Howland pointed out.

Vayon groaned. "And we had a shipment last night."

"No, a traitor would know about the food tester," Ned shook his head while Howland's face darkened again. "Someone must have sneaked inside somehow despite the heavy guard."

"There are rumours of secret passages going through all the Red Keep," his friend gnashed his teeth. "Give me Winter and two dozen men, and I'll do a full sweep of the Tower, finding any and all ratholes."

"You will have them - I want no catspaws skulking around," he barked out the order, Winter already standing up and gingerly moving beside Howland on his own. Ned turned his attention to Vayon. "I want all the food in the larders emptied. Give them to the poor of Flea-Bottom, and let all know that the Hand cares for the people." It was an abrupt idea, but the more he thought about it, the more Ned felt it aligned well to shut down the naysayers. "All our food and supplies are to be bought at random from the markets in the city, and have three guardsmen stand sentry at the kitchens at all times."

"It will be done, my lord," Jory bowed deeply and strode out of the solar, followed by Vayon.

As soon as his steward and captain of the guard were out, Ned slumped on the Hand's velvet chair. "Who would do this? I have not wronged anyone!"

"Maybe it's not personal," Howland hummed. "You might be an obstacle to someone's plans. After all, half the small council oppose you vehemently on the Night's Watch reform."

That was mildly said. They all opposed Ned on various points, ranging from the mere act of reforming an ancient order to the barest of details. Selmy and Pycelle were against restructuring the vows and any change at all, Renly opposed giving out land in return for long service, and Littlefinger kept finding problems in the copper counting. And Robert - he simply didn't care much, if at all. True to his word, the king had left Ned to deal with the whole headache.

"I don't think they'll try to kill me over simple disagreements." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Not much I can do without any proof or suspects."

"Shouldn't you bring this matter to the king still?"

Eddard considered the idea for a heartbeat but almost immediately dismissed it. "I ought to, but Robert has a tendency to charge forward like a bull when angered. Gods know which poor and innocent soul would be the target of his ire. Besides, he's no longer the man I thought I knew. Only the gods know what folly would his mind concoct."

Truth be told, he preferred not to think of his friend, as it only choked him with disappointment and anger.

As Arlyn Greengood had been fetching the purgative in the morning, Ned had barked out a gag order to prevent rumours or knowledge from leaking out of the tower. He knew things would eventually get out one way or another, but that would slow it down by at least a handful of days, giving him time to think, plan, and observe.

"Such a vile assassination attempt cannot remain unpunished," Howland insisted.

"Indeed, it cannot." The Lord of Winterfell exhaled slowly and centred himself, trying to ignore the cold anger that burned like ice through his veins. "But lashing out in the dark might alert the perpetrator."

A thousand thoughts ran through Ned's mind as he tried to examine every interaction with the courtiers since his arrival. An endless and dull procession of pageantry and courtesies that made him feel numb just by thinking of it. Still, he knew of one person who would not wish for his demise at the cost of Tommen.

***

5th Day of the 9th Moon

Tyrion Lannister

If nothing else, King's Landing had gotten so much more interesting with Eddard Stark's presence here. The upcoming tourney had attracted knights and fighters from every corner of the realm, making the city a swarming hive of activity. A riot or two during the night, brawls, drunken horse races; Tyrion had the pleasure to spectate one last night, and gods, it was a spectacular watch.

Perhaps he ought to host his own tourney, but with all the participants being drunk, it would certainly make the whole affair far more riveting for the contestants and the crowd. Or perhaps it was the thrill of breaking the law?

Alas, there were quite some downsides to the liveliness; the city was packed. To Tyrion's chagrin, all the whorehouses had turned out full not only yesterday but also today, even the expensive services of Chataya's. The inns and taverns had been overflowing a sennight ago, and it seemed that even brothel rooms were taken as residency despite the almost exorbitant sums required. Manifold camps and tents were pitched under the city walls for those who couldn't find a place to sleep inside, and even more were arriving every day. Soon enough, a tent city would appear outside King's Landing, almost like an army encampment.

Despite being almost as generous in its rewards, Joffrey's name day tourney at the start of the year had not incited even a third of the interest. It appeared that Lord Stark's novelty, or no, more like antiquated additions, had drawn quite a lot of attention. Or mayhaps it was the celebration of the royal wedding? Ned Stark's tenure as Hand?

Tyrion wasn't sure whether it was one factor or a combination of the above. Now that the king had married off one of his children, fathers were flocking to present their daughters to Joffrey, like lusty rogues around a pure maiden.

Bored of the library, most tomes already perused more than once in his leisure, Tyrion found himself attending court of all places. Even the enormous throne room was quite full, with most of the newly arrived nobility in attendance if they were important enough to warrant an invitation.

It was as dull as usual; a large group of merchants, inn owners, and peddlers were petitioning before a bored Robert about the new 'Tourney tariff' that Littlefinger had imposed upon the city to attempt to fund part of the coming games. Oh, the loans had already been taken, but apparently, Eddard Stark disliked things like debt.

"Bah, nobody's forcing you money-grubbing lot to remain in the city," the king grunted from the Iron Throne as he waved the guards to take the group out. "Next!"

Next to the Iron Throne stood Eddard Stark, looking paler than usual as his eyes wandered around the crowd. Rumours were that the man had fallen ill yesterday but had still insisted on attending today's proceedings. Judging from the man's countenance, the whispers were spot on this time. Still, Tyrion already began regretting coming here; his legs had grown numb from standing as everyone save the councillors or the king had to kneel or stand, respectively.

"Lazos of Tyrosh, representing Magister Zaphon Sarrios and the Tyroshi Trading Cartels," the herald's cry elicited a wave of murmurs from the courtiers and grabbed Tyrion's attention. It was not often that someone from the Free Cities came before the sunset court, as they called it.

A pair of guardsmen opened the bronze and oaken doors, and an older man with greying hair walked through the entrance of the throne room.

The man was doubtlessly a scholar of some sort - judging by the golden scrolls and glyphs stitched through his dark velvet robes. Even his wizened face reminded Tyrion of most of the maesters he had seen.

It took the man almost half a minute to make his way and kneel theatrically before the Iron Throne and the small table for the members of the small council.

"Your Grace," he began, his accent surprisingly soft but pleasant to the ear. "I humbly come before you to seek justice for heinous crimes against Magister Sarrios and his holdings."

"And what exactly were those heinous crimes committed to make it the matter of the Iron Throne?" Eddard Stark's voice was as cold as ice, and Tyrion couldn't help but notice that Lazos of Tyrosh was eyeing the enormous direwolf next to Lord Stark with open interest.

The eastern scholar straightened up his torso despite his kneeling position, his hands clasped in a practised manner. "Magister Sarrios sent an important expedition to acquire mammoth ivory Beyond the Wall, but all of its hundred members, including important members of the Tyroshi Trading Cartel, fell into ambush and were mercilessly slaughtered with but a single survivor."

That instantly seemed to grab the court's attention, as any of the usual murmurs quickly died out. Even the king leaned in with interest from the uncomfortable throne. Tyrion had quite a good inkling about the so-called 'expeditions' to acquire mammoth ivory. The whole idea was odd since you could still procure the ivory if you were willing to part with enough coin; his Lord Father had a chair made of the stuff. Lined with runes inscribed with gold, of course.

Oh, the man was speaking the truth, yet Tyrion suspected a good chunk of the story was being omitted; the Tyroshi were notorious slavers and doubtlessly planned to catch young and able bodies for sale, aside from any other goals. Perhaps even luxury objects like weirwood that fetched over twice its weight in gold in the Free Cities.

"The Lands Beyond the Wall are a lawless place filled with darkness, cold, and savages, outside the purview of the Seven Kingdoms," Lord Stark reminded stonily. "Any complaints must be addressed to the Night's Watch or the perpetrators in question."

Tyrion couldn't help but snort; the image of slavers seeking justice from rabid savages was deliciously amusing. He wasn't the only one, as several members of the court, especially the Northmen and Stormlords, laughed or murmured in agreement.

"Your Grace, my Lord Hand, the perpetrator is one of your subjects."

"Well, don't keep us in suspense. Who did such a -" Robert coughed in a bid to cover his amusement, but Tyrion managed to catch the light in his blue eyes dancing with cheer, "vile deed to your unfortunate expedition?"

"Magister Sarrios was most devastated at the failure of this expedition," Lazos said mournfully as he bowed his head. "One Jon Snow, with his pet direwolf and plenty of hounds accompanied by Duncan Liddle and Jarod Snow, did this wicked butchery upon the Magister's peaceful expedition."

The moment the words left the old scholar's mouth, the throne room erupted into hollers and… cheers? Almost deafening cries of 'The Jon' and 'The White Huntsman' started from a few Northmen, quickly spreading like wildfire through the Valemen and the Stormlords in attendance. It was so infectious that even Tyrion found himself raising his fist and joining in. Gods, the young bastard was barely a man but was already hunting giant-sized bears and slavers; a tale for the songs if he ever heard one!

"SILENCE!" Robert's mighty bellow was like a thunderclap that swept away the commotion like the storm would blow away the autumn leaves. Yet, Tyrion could see mirth dancing in the king's eyes. Robert Baratheon's love for valour, bravery, and glory was well known.

"Are you sure the survivor still has the wits to him?" Varys asked softly from the small council table. "The cold is known to play tricks on the mind with time."

"He was quite lucid, I assure you. I was there when the poor Lando told his story," Lazos carefully motioned at Winter. "He described the direwolf perfectly - only that one was coloured pure white with baleful red eyes."

Which was quite a unique appearance for a direwolf and the only one known to belong to Jon Snow. But a few words were flimsy proof of anything. Yet the Lord of Winterfell was fascinating to observe right now - his face had somehow managed to become even more stony that one would easily confuse him for a granite sculpture.

"A tall tale - one boy, two men, and a handful of mutts slaughtered what you claim to be a hundred experienced men," Renly snorted, along with a few Reachmen. "That doesn't change much - the lands Beyond the Wall are a lawless wasteland, and as far as I know, the Tyroshi Trading Cartels never entered any negotiations with the Night's Watch over such an expedition. Lord Commander Mormont?"

A few courtiers made way for Jeor Mormont, wrapped in a heavy black cloak, to step forward. "Aye, the only ones who have approached the Watch for passage northwards are Jon Snow and his companions and a Red Priestess from Asshai."

"Jon Snow had a whole pack of wolves and hounds with him that day," the envoy insisted.

"The Iron Throne cannot accept such a petition based on hearsay," Lord Stark's voice was so frigid Tyrion shuddered. But his eyes as he looked at the Tyroshi were even colder, and even the old man took a subconscious step back. "You can always bring in the witness so the king could hear his testimony in person. But even then, it would matter not, as no laws were broken. Unless… Magister Zaphon Sarrios or the Tyroshi Archonate intends to claim the Land Beyond the Wall?"

Oh, Lord Stark was good, Tyrion could admit. It was as clear as day that the man was very wroth, but his fury was a cold, terrible thing that did not take away his reason but made him more dangerous. With a few words and the possibility of a war with Tyrosh, everyone in the throne room was glaring at the Tyroshi envoy, who was quick to shake his head, sputtering a loud denial.

"Anything else, Lazos of Tyrosh?" Robert rumbled, seemingly losing his patience.

Lazos then coughed and nodded to himself in resignation as if expecting a similar outcome. "Magister Zaphon Sarrios wants to collect the debt owed by the Iron Throne to the Tyroshi Trading Cartels."

"Such things must be negotiated with the master of coin and the small council." The king stood up. "Court dismissed, councillors - with me!"

The throne room was filled with excited buzzing all of a sudden, and Tyrion did not doubt that the tale of Jon Snow and his heroics would spread far and wild now. He had no idea what the Tyroshi magister was planning, but the man knew nothing of Robert Baratheon.

Just as he was making his way outside, someone tugged on his sleeve and pulled him behind one of the marble pillars supporting the ceiling. Tyrion turned to see Howland Reed wrapped in an unassuming brown travel cloak with no distinctive heraldry on display. If he didn't know the crannogman, he'd confuse him for a travelling peddler or some merchant's bastard son.

"Lord Tyrion, Lord Stark requests an urgent meeting between himself and your royal sister," the words were barely a whisper, and Tyrion had to lean in to hear them properly. "It is a matter of great import - you and your brother are also invited."

This sounded so exciting, even though Tyrion had little idea why Eddard Stark would require all three of Tywin Lannister's children in one place.

"I can certainly pass on the message," he said, trying to keep his face even. But inside raged the exhilaration at the prospect of the clandestine plots the honourable Eddard Stark would try to concoct. "But make no mistake - I'm not Cersei's favourite brother, and my words might be ignored."

"I am sure you can make a compelling case if you wish, Lord Tyrion," Reed's usually warm eyes glinted with an unnerving savagery, and his placid smile was nowhere to be seen. "Tonight, half an hour after sunset in the godswood."

Tyrion blinked, and the crannogman was gone in the crowd of courtiers, his eyes unable to find the short man, who was still substantially taller than him, no matter how they searched.