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.

***

5th Day of the 9th Moon, 298AC

The Kingslayer

Being a member of the kingsguard could be quite dull at times, following around the king while he went about his day or standing guard in front of doors, where the most exciting thing was the wall in front of you or the sounds of Robert fucking another whore. The nights on guard duty were the worst, where even staying awake was a problem. Of course, apart from the occasional moments when Cersei pulled him into her chambers for a quick tumble.

But such moments were rare; his sister preferred their trysts to happen when they were away from the Red Keep visiting Casterly Rock or in the king's absence, who usually took much of his retinue and kingsguard on his hunts.

At least with Robert as king, he got to stand sentry inside the small council chamber on the rare occasions he graced the proceedings with his presence, a perk of being the Queen's brother.

And while the meetings were not always the most entertaining, they were leagues better than staring at an empty hallway outside. Jaime was not alone in his vigil; while Barristan got to sit on the council as a Lord Commander, Tommen stood silently by the wall, listening with rapt attention.

"How much do we owe to those trading cartels?" Eddard Stark asked. The northern lord looked not only pale but surly; Jaime could see his cold gaze wander over the councillors as if he were seeing them for the first time.

Baelish, who had just returned from a short meeting with the Tyroshi envoy, patted the opened ledger and coughed, "Just shy of six hundred thousand dragons."

"And when does the slaving copper counters want it back?" Robert grunted with disinterest.

"All by the beginning of 300 AC."

"Bah, it can wait for next year, then! Aren't we planning to pay back the Essosi bankers already?"

The king's nonchalance made all the councillors uneasy. And from what little Jaime knew, the crown was neck-deep in debt, and the royal family's lavish ways couldn't endure solely on the throne's income.

"Aye, Your Grace." Stark looked rather tired all of a sudden. For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say something else but decided otherwise.

"What if we just don't pay them?" Renly asked. "What could the magister even do?"

The king perked up while Eddard Stark closed his eyes and rubbed his brow tiredly.

"It would set a dangerous precedent," Pycelle wheezed; the old grandmaester looked like he would fall asleep any moment. "Others would be cautious or even… reluctant in lending money to the crown if debts are ignored for no reason."

The master of coin looked at Renly with disappointment. "The envoy said if the Iron Throne defaults on its dues, all Westerosi vessels would have to pay double tariffs and customs in Tyrosh for ten years, while the debt would be sold to the Iron Bank."

A long-faded memory of Jaime's lessons with his father came to mind. The magisters of the three daughters were all slaving scum but not incapable and disliked being cheated. Not to mention that paying one's debts was a simple fact drilled from a young age into all Lannisters.

Robert waved dismissively, "There's plenty of time still."

Alas, it seemed like such lessons never reached the Baratheons of Storm's End. Or perhaps it was Jon Arryn's teachings that were lacking?

"Lazos did provide an alternative… arrangement. Here, he even gave it in writing." Baelish handed a small scroll to Pycelle, but Jaime could see mirth dance in his eyes despite his impassive face.

The old grandmaester hemmed and hewed as his gaze roamed over the parchment before passing it over to Varys.

The king slapped the table impatiently, startling not only the councillors but Jaime and Barristan, "Bah, enough with this charade, read it aloud, Varys."

For once, the kingslayer was glad for Robert's brashness because his curiosity had been piqued.

"I, Magister Zaphon Sarrios, hereby propose the following settlement. The Tyroshi Trading Cartels are willing to forgive a third of the debt owed by the Iron Throne, two hundred thousand golden dragons, and extend the payment period to year 305 after the Conquest under the following terms." Varys gave one of his annoying titters, and Jaime could swear he saw Stark's eye twitch. Some days, he couldn't help but think that the Spider employed his mummery just to make everyone uncomfortable. "First - Jon Snow wedding one of my daughters of his choice. Second, he and his direwolf are to come under my employ, the terms being openly negotiable."

The room fell into a grave silence as soon as the last word was uttered. Jaime blinked as if he could not believe what he had just heard - and he was not the only one. If looks could kill, Eddard Stark's gaze would have murdered Varys for simply reading aloud the demands. Even Robert's face had gone impassive, but a storm was brewing in his eyes.

"Well, what are the other terms?" Renly urged.

Varys coughed, "...These were all the terms."

The Lord of Storm's End looked thoughtful while Pycelle tugged on his chain nervously.

"It does not sound like a bad arrangement," the Grandmaester's words were slow and spoken with caution. "Two hundred thousand gold for a single bastard and his pet. The boy gets a wife out of it, too."

"I've heard Magister Sarrios' daughters are all easy on the eye," Littlefinger added with glee.

Renly immediately added with amusement while looking at Stark, "If the Tyroshi is not lacking in daughters, mayhaps we can send off two more bastards and clear that debt entirely-"

Bang!

Robert had slammed his fist on the table so hard that an imprint was left in the solid varnished oak. Not only that, but his face had gone puce with anger. In their bid to mock Stark, the other councillors seemed to have forgotten to keep an eye on the usually uncaring king.

"I will not be extorted by some copper-counting slave-monger! Ned, this was your boy's third feat, was it not?"

"Aye," Stark confirmed, face completely unreadable.

Truth be told, Jaime was also quite impressed. Slaying a monstrous bear on his lonesome while saving a lord's daughter and vanquishing dark things supposedly crawled right out of old myths and legends, and now, slavers were another notch on Jon Snow's belt of achievements. Even Jaime felt rather impressed, even if the accounts were greatly embellished; the lad was just six and ten but had enough daring for ten men, just the type Robert admired.

"Well, I say, the lad deserves a good reward!"

Baelish was the first to recover from the king's outburst. "Perhaps a knighthood?"

"Such honours have always been granted in person," Selmy quickly objected. "And never based on hearsay!"

"Well, Magister Sarrios seems to think Jon Snow is worth at least a daughter and two hundred thousand dragons - I strongly doubt it's due to the lack of ability."

"My son is not some item to be bought and sold!" Stark's glare stabbed daggers at Baelish, who simply shrugged. "Besides, Jon is a devout follower of the Old Gods and cares little for Southron knighthood. If he desires a knighthood, I can arrange for Lord Dustin to do so."

Jaime barely stopped himself from scoffing aloud at the mention of the so-called Barrow Knights. Barristan's face remained impassive, but he could see his jaw clench.

"True, true," the king slapped his gut and smiled slyly. "A lordship ought to do it, then."

"But Robert-"

"Your king commands it, Ned!"

Jaime suppressed his desire to laugh at Stark's face - the Northern lord's pained yet silent acceptance made him look like he suffered from constipation. Although from what Jaime could see, the rest of the councillors did not seem thrilled at the idea either, and Littlefinger was the first to gather his bearing.

"For all the rumours of our brave Snow, we've yet to see the boy's face. Perhaps something closer like Harrenal or the Whispers?"

If Jaime had any doubt that Baelish disliked Stark, it was now fully gone - both the Whispers and Harrenhal were considered cursed and were thorny seats to deal with, superstitions aside.

"Harrenhal belongs to house Whent," Pycelle reminded.

Varys leaned forward, his clasped hands disappearing in his long sleeves. "And all that remains from the Whents is a feeble old lady with no direct heirs. I am sure the Tullys would be honoured to relinquish their claim for the Lord Hand."

This time, Jaime could not hold back a snort, and he wasn't the only one as the masters of coin and law snickered aloud until a warning growl sounded out from the ground, and Jaime paled slightly. Barristan was eyeing the beast cautiously. Somehow, Jaime had forgotten about Stark's direwolf as it raised its massive head enough to peek over the table, and he could have sworn it glared at him first before the others. Once the councillors were suitably cowed, it returned to the ground, causing Robert to guffaw.

"If all it took for you to behave was a massive wolf, then I might have Winter here attend every council." Robert glanced at the beast with appreciation. "There's plenty of empty castles and keeps to choose from," the king declared. "I'll even let the lad make his own pick. Ned, ink it down!"

Tommen provided a scroll to Lord Stark, who dipped his quill in the inkpot before pausing. "From anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms?"

"Of course! Let it not be said that the Iron Throne lets brave deeds go unrewarded!"

***

Luckily, it was his turn to guard Cersei for the night. Otherwise, his sister would probably not have agreed to the meeting, although Jaime wouldn't put it past Stark to know the rotation of the kingsguard.

The night was cloudless, and the grove was illuminated by the soft glow of starlight and the full moon. Even the ghastly heat had begun to retreat; a soft breeze with the promise of pleasant coolness blew from the bay. Jaime has eschewed bringing a torch to keep both his hands free to draw his sword if need be.

After Stark arrived in King's Landing, even fewer courtiers dared to visit the Godswood anymore, and most of those did so during the day. Rumours of the direwolf prowling around had them all chased away and were also making Jaime on edge now. If any errant spectators dared to brave the godswood, all they would see was a brother and sister taking a walk while a white cloak was guarding them.

His body was tense, and he found his gaze wandering in the surrounding bushes and trees where darkness stubbornly clung, expecting something to leap out any moment.

"This is so exciting!" Tyrion did a cartwheel, making Cersei snort in amusement. His brother had not done that particular trick ever since their father had forbidden it so long ago. The sight reminded him of when Tyrion was still a child, all bright and hopeful. "What do you think the honourable Lord Stark is scheming?"

Jaime still couldn't figure out why Stark wanted to meet all three of them together, let alone at such a clandestine hour. Despite what Tyrion thought, he knew the Lord of Winterfell lacked what it had to be a schemer. The man was direct and honest and did not shy away from speaking out his opinion, even if the audience misliked it. Jaime remembered that day in the throne room that earned him his lauded moniker as if it had happened yesterday.

Kingslayer!

So what if people mocked him for his deeds?

None of them had seen what he had seen or heard what he had heard.

"Perhaps he wants to get rid of us in one swoop?" His sister murmured, but both of them heard her well enough. Even in her plain hunting green attire, Cersei was a sight to behold, and his eyes kept wandering to her womanly curves.

"No, he'd come for us lawfully, out in the open," Jaime said.

Could Stark know of their affair?

The thought was dismissed as quickly as it appeared in his mind; if Stark did know, they would be arrested, or the king would be coming for them with warhammer in hand. Unless the Northern Highlord got it in his head to do something as stupid as telling them he knew they were cuckolding Robert before going to the king to give them some misplaced chance at mercy.

"So, dear sister," Tyrion began theatrically. "I have heard a most interesting rumour!"

"Oh, and what are the whores saying now, dear brother?"

"If you must know, the words came from a certain gentleman, one I ought not to name, in a choicer establishment over some Arbor gold."

"Just speak your piece, Tyrion," Cersei finally began to lose her patience with their brother's antics.

"Well, have you truly summoned our cousins Myrielle and Cerenna to be your ladies-in-waiting?"

She curtly nodded, not deigning to respond verbally, making Tyrion sigh and abandon the topic.

The truth was that Cersei was getting annoyed by all the new ladies in court, all tittering around Joffrey and vying for his attention, regardless of their ages. The position of future Queen had attracted almost everyone of importance and with a pretty daughter to spare. His sister had her own plans about Joffrey's future spouse and hoped to arrange a marriage with someone pliable, and thus the summons for their cousins.

How said plans would realise, Jaime knew not and didn't care to ask.

"Maybe Lord Stark wants your advice on how to deal with unwanted advances, brother?"

The most amusing thing was that half the other maidens seemed to be trying to seduce Eddard Stark with little to no success; the man was as responsive to their advances as a block of ice. Whoever made him break his vows even once must have been the Maiden reborn. Cersei had said it was because of his choicer clothing and good style or something, but Jaime couldn't see it; the northern Highlord always looked the same to him.

"I highly doubt it," Jaime snorted. "He's keeping his chastity well enough on his own."

"And with a little help with that direwolf of his," Tyrion added with a chortle. "Although I think some of them have lost their wits. It's hard not to laugh when I hear Maris Roxton cooing again how she wants to brush the beast's fur and bury her face in it."

"Yet she dares not approach," Cersei sneered. "Another spineless chit."

"Maybe he has taken a paramour already, and the others simply don't know?"

"It would have been the talk of the court if he had," Jaime pointed out. "Enough gossip-mongering now, we're here."

The old oak that served as a heart tree was now in sight. Eddard Stark's silhouette was easy to make up around in the soft moonlight, but the man was not alone. Another towering figure stood a few steps behind - easily over seven feet tall. Since the Mountain had yet to arrive, this could only be the Giant of Winterfell.

Jaime's fingers found his sword's hilt, and his shoulders tensed as he prepared for a fight. While he believed defeating Stark was well within his means, Walder the Red Wake was another thing altogether. The brutal giant had left a veritable sea of dismembered limbs and corpses in every battle in the Greyjoy Rebellion, including some captains and lords, earning himself a bloody moniker. Alone, the kingslayer was confident in his chances, but both of them at the same time would be far beyond his means, even without considering the direwolf who probably prowled around.

And there was no doubt the so-called Winter was nearby; the godswood was so unnaturally quiet, and no birds were singing nor crickets chirping. The only thing that could be heard was the soft rustling of the leaves under the mischievous breeze.

"Why have you summoned us at this clandestine hour, Lord Stark?" Cersei asked neutrally. She stood at the front while Jaime was to her right and Tyrion to her left. Despite the dislike between his siblings, they were not beyond showing a united front.

"I bring dire tidings," Stark's face was grim. "An attack most vile has been committed against my person."

"Oh, do you believe we were the perpetrators, Lord Stark?" Tyrion frowned.

"Nay, Lord Tyrion," Stark's voice grew cold. "I doubt any of you would want to poison Tommen."

"What?" Cersei's voice grew as cold as ice. Jaime just shuffled uneasily, unsure what to do.

"Two days ago, we were breaking our fast, but it turned out some of our food had unwanted condiments," the Northerner's words were grim. "If not for my direwolf and Lord Reed, they would have succeeded."

Was this why Lord Stark and Tommen had been absent from court the previous day? Even now, Stark looked paler than before.

"What poison was used?" Tyrion asked, voice hoarse.

"Tears of Lys, according to my healer. I am still unsure if this was an attack on my person or the prince," Stark admitted.

Jaime had no idea what that poison was. In fact, he knew very little of poisons - they were a coward's weapon. One look at Cersei told him she was oscillating between disbelief and fury as if the mere thought of someone attempting to poison one of her children was unbelievable.

His brother, however, seemed to have more questions with his thirst for knowledge.

"I thought the Tears were untraceable?" Tyrion's knowledge of poisons caught Jaime by surprise, although it probably shouldn't have; his brother never shied away from reading anything.

"Whoever wanted me and Tommen dead thought the same," Stark chuckled darkly, and suddenly, an enormous shaggy silhouette appeared next to him. Jaime tensed as a chill crawled up his spine - he had not heard or sensed the direwolf approach at all. "But Winter sniffed it out, and my personal physician identified the food taster's symptoms."

He blinked, and the beast was gone as silently as he had appeared. Warily, he looked around but saw nothing but darkness, shrubbery, and trees.

Tyrion, however, continued speaking. "So, what exactly do you want from us? Or better, why not go to the king?"

"I have no idea who did it, and telling Robert would send him on the warpath, quite possibly scaring the culprit," the Hand admitted. "It would be in our best interests to join efforts and uncover the perpetrator. I still have no idea who would dare to attempt such a heinous act. Moreover, Lord Lannister must be notified discreetly, but I dare not risk doing it myself."

"What does our father have to do with any of this?"

"The slow-acting poison was meant to look like an accident," Stark's voice grew cold. "I know not how deep the plot goes, but caution is paramount. Next thing you know, I passed away in a bad bout of sickness, along with Tommen. Your brother has a fatal mishap in the training yard, a whore kills you in a brothel out of jealousy, and your sister has slipped down a flight of stairs, breaking her neck. Only the gods know how many were murdered this way in this accursed keep."

Suddenly, the warm breeze felt chilly, as if winter, the season, had decided to come earlier, and the Lord of Winterfell looked like a statue hewn from ice. Jaime fought the urge not to turn around and check if the direwolf wasn't breathing down his neck.

He didn't want to believe what Stark was saying, but Cersei had gone deathly pale now, and Tyrion had gone strangely silent. But then again, Eddard Stark was notoriously honest, and, to his dread, Jaime believed every word he said.

"I'll make sure our father knows," his sister's words were strangled.

"There's more."

"More?!" Tyrion let out an undignified squawk.

"Someone wants to place our Houses at odds. Remember that thief I had caught with Mance Rayder? Well-"

Jaime's head spun as he listened to Stark explaining the accompanying ploys. A ciphered letter bearing the Arryn sigil, Littlefinger making daring moves that were hard to trace to his person, the odd rumours intent on slandering Stark's good name, all the councillors either largely unhelpful or antagonistic.

It was all so outlandish… but it made too much sense. Jaime couldn't help but remember all the barbs the councillors had been jabbing at Eddard Stark. The ridiculous rumours, along with the Faith's antagonism, helped little. There were indeed too many plotters and schemers in court, and now that Jaime thought about it, plenty of them seemed to have some axe to grind with Stark for some reason. His brother, however, remained unconvinced.

"But why would someone want to do such a thing?"

"War. If the wolf and the lion fight, half the realm would be dragged into it." Stark looked like he aged ten years all of a sudden. "So, what say you?"

"If my nephew had died with a burst belly and you lived, the newly forged relationship between House Stark, the Crown, and House Lannister would have been broken or come under severe strain," his brother's words were a mix of dread and fascination. "But if you died while Tommen lived, suspicions would fall onto the prince, and any alliance would also be soured…"

Apparently, his sister had reached a similar conclusion, given that she looked like a lioness whose tail had just been pulled.

"We shall work together, Lord Stark." Cersei's green eyes blazed with fury. "But you better keep my son safe."

Jaime was surprised at his sister's sudden show of trust - just yesterday, she had been the one complaining about Tommen serving under Stark. If anything else, he expected her to demand her youngest son be returned to her.

"I will die before I let something happen to Tommen," the Hand vowed, and Jaime believed him.

"Alright then," Tyrion clapped with sudden cheer as his grotesque face twisted into a smile. "Now, do you know how the Tears of Lys found their way to your food? Do you think my other nephew would be safe? How about Myrcella-" An endless stream of questions erupted from his brother while Jaime felt a bit lost. He had no idea what in the seven bloody hells he was supposed to feel other than numbness and was faced with the worst kind of conundrum - one he couldn't run through with his sword.

Thank the Father and the Warrior for his little brother, or Jaime would have probably fallen on his sword from the headaches.

***

7th Day of the 9th Moon

The Bog Devil

The attempt on Ned's life had his nerves stretched taut. Someone wanted to kill not only his liege lord but his closest and dearest friend.

It was unacceptable.

Scouring the Tower of the Hand had given some results - two passageways had been found with the aid of Winter. The dark tunnels below, however, were a vexing maze at best, and Howland failed to find a single living soul - the perpetrator had long since fled. Whoever had used them seemed to do so sparingly, so Ned ordered the secret entrances tightly sealed, unwilling to let his men skulk down in the darkness like some scheming catspaws.

Trying to catch the rumour-mongers had tested Howland's patience and ingenuity to the very limits, but finally his perseverance had born fruits.

That is how he had ended up in a brothel of all places. He had just followed a particularly vicious bard pouring oil into the fiery rumours. Gently putting asleep the whore he had hired, he silently sneaked out of his room to eavesdrop on his target. The private parlour in question was in a small turret. Thankfully, most of the servants and whores were busy with their clients, so Howland managed to make his way up the wooden stairwell undetected.

The quiet buzz of voices could already be heard, but the crannoglord had to glue his ear to the keyhole to make out the specific words.

"So, the Hand is now stealin' coin from the crown?" It was a deep, baritone voice which must have belonged to the bard. Howland tried to look through the keyhole but only saw two hooded figures.

"Indeed. Two hundred thousand dragons, gone," the answer was soft and sleek. Howland couldn't help but find the voice oddly familiar. "Some scared Northerners said he still practices the First Night in secret, and all who find out are discreetly disposed of."

Howland Reed's face darkened at this foul slander, and his hand found his bronze dagger. He took a slow, deep breath and held it for three heartbeats, letting his rage dwindle, if not by much.

"Now he breaks the Conciliator's laws, too! Is there any end to Stark's corrupt ways?" The voice shuddered at the end. The Lord of Greywater Watch had to exhale slowly once more in a bid to control his rising temper. Those rumours seemed to be getting viler and viler, besmirching Ned's good name.

It was painful and infuriating to hear such an honourable, dutiful man like Eddard Stark be slandered with such malignant things. Even more so that some people would buy such a foolish drivel - anyone who had an inkling of Ned's character would dismiss it immediately.

"Nay, his presence here alone corrupts Good King Robert's name," the familiar voice agreed. "Even his bastard is a vile murderer consorting with foreign priests and slavers, reneging on given promises and eating human flesh!"

Even Jon got slandered now, too?!

Oh, there would be a reckoning as soon as Howland got his hands on the rumour-monger and his master.

Alas, making a move here in the brothel would be unwise, so he silently bid his time. Howland was very skilled with a dagger or a frog spear, but subduing people was far harder than killing them for a man of his stature.

"Worry not. I shall not let such heinous deeds be swept under the rug!" The first one declared righteously. "You needn't pay me for any of this, my good man. I shall let my friends know of these misdeeds most foul!"

"This is not a payment but an investment - I have quite the eye for talent."

The clinking of coin was followed by a chuckle, then the creak of a chair announcing one of the men standing up, and Howland quickly slunk down the spiral staircase, careful not to produce any sound. A few moments later, he sneaked around the hallways and entered the common room, where the old proprietress, Madame Mara, gave him a toothy smile. Her flowing hair had streaks of grey, and Essosi powders covered her wrinkled cheeks. The smell of perfume was choking, and even her lips were poisonous red, courtesy of some queer dye, making him wish to be anywhere but here.

"I hope you were satisfied by our services, dear?"

"Very much," Howland lied through his teeth with a wide smile, even if he shuddered inwardly from the croaky voice and the red-stained teeth. Thankfully, his cowl covered most of his face. "The poor lass passed out from exhaustion, though."

"Again?" Madame Mara's face darkened, but the crannoglord's attention was grabbed by the two familiar robed figures entering from the door leading to the turret. The bard was tall and gaunt, while the other unknown man was short and slender.

The shorter one gave the old witch a nod and left the brothel. Howland bid a quick farewell to the Madam and followed the slender man out to the street.

His stride was quick as he weaved through the bustle of the Street of Silk, and Howland almost lost him a few times.

Yet, the crannogmen were skilled hunters and trackers, and Howland prided himself in those skills - there were no better than him in the Neck. By the time his target entered the Street of the Sisters, the crannoglord had shortened the distance without being noticed.

As soon as he approached a small, dark alley, Howland walked into the robed figure, slamming his whole weight into the slender man and sending him tumbling into the gloomy pathway.

A glance at his surroundings told him nobody seemed to be alerted by his deed, and the handful of gold cloaks seemed to be making their way to the nearby tavern, so the crannoglord leapt into the alleyway after his target.

The slender man was down on the ground, groaning with pain, and Howland cautiously approached, making sure the wall was to his back so he could keep his eyes on both sides of the alley. He roughly removed the man's hood, causing a pin of a mockingbird to fall on the ground, then placed a knife on the man's neck, causing him to still.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" The words slipped unbidden, making him sound like some sort of brigand, but the Lord of Greywater Watch couldn't be more surprised by the sight before him.

"P-Please, friend," Petyr Baelish's voice was pained as his grey-green eyes looked at him, not with their usual mockery but with fear as he cowered on the ground. "There is no n-need for such violence. What have I done to deserve s-such ire?"

Yet Howland remained silent as his mind raced like a stallion across the plain. This was not a simple servant or a nobody. This was the master of coin, one of the richest and most powerful men in the realm, spreading rumours like some lowlife. Yet, Howland knew of his ilk - all of his clandestine deeds were doubtlessly done in a way that would not hold under the scrutiny of the law and slander, while vile, wasn't a particularly heavy crime when not aimed at the royal family. That was if his word was considered valid in a court of law, as he knew how the Southrons saw him and his fellow Bog Devils. Even with Ned vouching for his honour, it would come down to his word against Baelish.

At most, Baelish would get his tongue cut and be dismissed from his position, but Eddard Stark's good name would already be dragged through the mud. And that was only if he couldn't weasel his way from this trouble like Janos Slynt had done before.

Worse, trial by combat could be invoked, and Ned might have to challenge Littlefinger to an honour duel, and while the Lord of Winterfell would doubtlessly fight for his own name, Baelish would probably hire the best killer coin could buy. And Howland wouldn't risk losing his friend to some greedy, treacherous copper counter.

"Are you here to rob me?" Littlefinger's voice had turned knowing. "Just take my purse, friend, and I'll forget you were ever here. We could even come to an understanding - I am always in need of good men who do not mind some cloak-and-dagger work."

This could be the man who tried to poison Tommen and Ned. Howland could have been affected, too, if not for his preference for roasted fish. He could have asked some questions, but the crannoglord simply did not trust a single word from the man's treacherous mouth, and dawdling around might attract unwanted attention.

"No," Howland steeled himself, decision made. He glanced to the side, ensuring nobody was bothering to check up on the alley. "You made an enemy out of the wrong man, Baelish."

Littlefinger's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to cry out for help, but only a pained gasp escaped as his bronze dagger sank into the Valeman's jugular and twisted with a sickening squelch. Howland didn't bother stabbing again as he watched the master of coin gurgle while trying uselessly to hold his blood seeping from between his fingers. The wretch's eyes looked pleadingly at him, yet the crannoglord remained impassive. He kept vigil until the master of coin grew limp, and blood was dribbling into the dirty cobblestones below.

Eddard Stark was Howland Reed's closest friend, but the man was too honourable for his own good. Some problems needed a more… flexible approach than the Lord of Winterfell was willing to take. What Ned didn't know wouldn't hurt him; after all, King's Landing was a lawless place where robberies happened far too often.