Shrouded Destiny

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

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

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

***

21st Day of the 9th Moon

The Hand of the King

Ned did not think it possible, but the heat had gotten even more unbearable, with the city overflowing with people. It was as if the thousands of visitors brought the heat and damp humidity from their homes. Even the shade provided scarce relief, and he felt like he was swimming in his sweat.

Aside from the heat, things were mostly going well.

The first day of the tourney saw Gorlon Pyke clinching victory at the axe-throwing, and Rogar Wull won the log-tossing, each earning ten thousand dragons as the victor's purse. It was to be as expected since both men were raised from childhood on the exercise, even if it wasn't for a tournament.

The return of old, discarded games had attracted a handful of errant Ironborn from the nearby waters. Even the crowds loved the previously unseen games. Tyrion seemed confident to recoup the coin spent on the overly generous awards by the end, but the opulent spending still grated on Ned.

Even the evening feast had easily been more gaudy and sumptuous than what Ned toiled hard to offer in the North for the royal visit and Robb's wedding. This was just the first evening, and it had cost thousands of dragons already! It was clear how the Crown had gotten into such heavy debt, and any doubt about Robert's part in it had evaporated.

Worse, talking about any restraint with Robert was like pouring water into a broken bucket - any concerns were laughed away with 'Who cares about copper counting, Ned!'

While that left a sour taste in his mouth, things were not so terrible. Everything went surprisingly smoothly once he decided to put all his efforts into finishing his reform. Robert did not bother with the matter except heavily endorsing it as promised. Though the reception was greater than he had imagined…

On the second morning, a surprising visitor came just before Ned broke his fast. Unlike most of the scheming Southron nobility, he let Vayon know that any of his bannermen could visit him freely, and so could the Old Bear. While none of the Northern lords had made an appearance, King's Landing was full of cousins, second and third sons, old uncles, and a handful of unimportant heirs, all here in silent support and to grab whatever coin and prestige they could from the tourney.

The former Lord of Bear Isle was a frequent visitor who often came over to discuss different aspects of the reforms. But since they had been officially announced, Mormont had not come over, quite possibly busy dealing with the hefty aftermath.

They settled in the private audience chamber, but the old Mormont politely declined the offer of refreshments.

"How may I be of assistance, Jeor?"

"You've done more than enough, Lord Stark," the old Lord Commander smiled. His usually tired, dark eyes shone with warmth and hope. "I have decided to return to the Wall post-haste." That would explain the black travel cloak Mormont had donned.

"House Stark has always been a friend to the Watch." Ned nodded solemnly.

"That it has, although… I could use some help shipping those recruits." Mormont held a stoic face for a moment before crumbling into a bellyful of disbelieving laughter, tears streaming through his wrinkled cheeks. "A thousand volunteers in a sennight, Ned. A thousand."

And that was just volunteers; there were over two hundred thieves, poachers, and all sorts of lawbreakers that had expressed a desire to take the black, now that it was not for life. Even though the newly formed fourth order, temporarily named the Provisional Reserve, would take in all the men on the wrong side of the law and squeeze them for any worth they had until their sentence had taken its course. The decision to separate the scum from the rest had come after a lot of deliberation - many did not want to serve side by side with murderers, rapers, and thieves even after the pardons, brotherhood or not. And this was just King's Landing; ravens had been sent to every corner of the realm, carrying the royal decree.

And it seemed like it had paid off.

Even without the lawbreakers, the interest was so high that Jeor had decided to permanently station one of the rangers, Jafer Flowers, here as a recruiter. Ned had graciously arranged for a suitable property where such activity could be arranged - there were very few doors left unopened for the King's Hand within the city. Two other such chapters were to be established - in White Harbour and Wintertown. Perhaps he could wrangle with Tywin to allow one such in Lannisport? And Hoster or Edmure for one near Riverrun or Fairmarket.

And Gods, for the first time, the Lord of Winterfell felt that his efforts here were finally paying off. His main worry, his main reason for braving the snake den, had finally been fulfilled. The royal decree announcing the Watch's reform was showing better results than he could have ever imagined, and this had been based solely on King's Landing. Even now, ravens were flying to every corner of the realm with the word of the reform and a hefty royal endorsement.

Now, Ned could pour his efforts into helping Robert wrangle with the mess that was the court and city.

The relief was almost blissful, and the Lord of Winterfell could scarcely stop smiling. "I'll let Wylis lend you three of his galleys. I'll even do you one better and negotiate with a few seafaring houses to see if a deal can be brokered for further assistance."

"Aye, it would do for now. Lord Tyrion proposed a clever trick to lure in merchants, and Cotter's ships will hopefully be able to handle the east coast. Regardless, I'll figure something out. Gods, how long has it been since the Watch had such royal favour?" Jeor shook his wizened head in wonder.

"Three hundred years." Both of them grimaced at the words. While peace had played a role, House Targaryen's attitude towards the Watch slowly eroded the ancient order's foundations. Royal contempt was an insidious thing that could not be fought.

"Well then, a lot of work awaits." Jeor thoughtfully ran a hand through his white beard. "I never thought I would have more men than I know what to do with, hah! But that's not why I came here."

Mormont gingerly placed the all-too-familiar elongated fur wrap on his empty desk.

"The sword?" The crunching of ice as he carefully unwrapped it confirmed Ned's suspicion as the crystalline blade instantly spread a welcome chill in the sweltering air.

"Keep it, Lord Stark. You'll need it far more than the Watch in this wretched city. Only my First Ranger could wield it, but he already has Longclaw.

This had brought Ned great relief; his younger brother was a better sword than he was, and a Valyrian Steel blade would only make Benjen far more dangerous. Jeor had a point. A blade such as this could prove the difference between life and death, especially since Ned had left Ice to Robb, and the crystalline blade was a longsword - precisely what he favoured.

"Thank you." He accepted the blade, running his fingers through the handle, the chill tingling pleasantly through his skin. The hilt fit perfectly in his palm as he grasped it gently as if it were made for him to wield. The balance and weight were slightly different from what he was used to, but that was nothing some practice would not solve.

And last but not least, the cool emanating from the crystalline sword was refreshing. It reminded Ned of the North; even the drowsy Winter seemed to perk up in its presence.

Gods, could he use this to banish the uncomfortable heat from his chambers at night?

***

23rd Day of the 9th Moon

On the second day, Ben Burley, a distant cousin to the current Burley chieftain, won the archery, leaving the exiled prince Jalabhar and Anguy from the Dornish marches in the runner-up positions. Too many had signed up, eager for the horse-racing competition or the ten thousand dragons winner's purse, making the games stretch for a second day.

The herald's mouth had gone dry halfway through the morning as he had to announce over half a thousand participants from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

At least today was easier on the man. The contestants had been reduced to three score, and by now were down to a dozen - Oberyn Martell, Patrek Mallister, Rickard Ryswell, Loras Tyrell, Lothor Brune, a Bracken bastard and a handful of less important knights hailing from the Crownlands, Reach, and Westerlands.

The difference between North and South was finally on full display, along with everything Ned misliked. The overflowing pageantry and useless opulence were almost blinding, as everyone had done their best to look like some sort of peacock. And it wasn't even the joust yet! Looking at the cumbersome, almost impractical attire, Ned was reminded of his distaste at such a blatant yet ultimately useless display of supposed wealth. Only the gods knew how many fools were left with an empty pouch to find the most gaudy armour and attire.

Yet even at a time like this, schemes were still going. Lysa Arryn had forbidden the Knights of the Vale to attend, though it had not stopped Yohn Royce and his eldest son. Such a gesture only made his distrust of his good sister grow, especially when Yohn told him Lysa appeared even more distraught over the death of her foster brother than her husband.

Gods, the more he stayed around, the more he loathed the South and its petty games.

Whatever alliance had been forged between Houses Arryn, Stark, and Tully seemed broken. Or, well, most of it, Edmure Tully had arrived with a hefty retinue of Riverlanders and had come over on arrival, promising Ned his full support. Good lad, though he wondered why Hoster had left his heir remain unwed for so long - Edmure was just a year shy of thirty now.

Gods, he was even politicking in his mind now!

Shaking his head, Ned took stock of the tourney grounds, Tommen's golden mop of hair easy to spot amidst the crowd. The young prince had been entrusted with squiring duties for Walder so he could get a closer taste of the tourney. The stands were filled to the brim and some more, and the royal box was no different. Lord Tyrell, all plump and gaudy, had arrived with his daughter and second son. The last he had seen of the lord of Highgarden, he had looked like a knight of tales, strong, fit, and chivalrous. Now, Mace Tyrell seemed to have indulged in a few feasts too many - his rotund figure reminded Ned of Wylis Manderly.

Only Greyjoy, Arryn, and Martell were absent from the Great Houses, and the latter only because Oberyn was on the lists.

"How about a friendly bet?" Renly's bored drawl interrupted the silence as the contestants started racing through the track.

"A hundred dragons on my brother," Tyrion replied boldly. "Who are you betting on, my lord?"

"My former squire is the finest rider I have seen. A hundred on Loras."

"Patrek Mallister will win," Edmure scoffed, joining the bet.

Mace Tyrell, sitting right next to Ned, did not want to be left behind and slapped his bulging belly, laughing. "Another hundred on my son! Lord Hand, care to join us?"

All the gamblers looked at him expectantly while Robert snorted with amusement. At moments like this, he envied Winter, who had remained away at the Tower of the Hand, napping through the scathing heat. Alas, the direwolf's presence scared almost all the horses in his vicinity, which would ruin the race.

"I don't bet." Like he would fall for this fool's errand to risk his coin on meaningless trifles.

Still, if not for the Red Viper, he thought Rickard Ryswell would have won with his steed. The Northern horses were bred and trained to traverse all sorts of rough terrain, which the obstacles were supposed to simulate. Alas, the Martell prince had brought the finest sand steed Ned had seen - a beautiful stallion as black as the night sky with a dark crimson mane and tail that took to the track with ease. While the Dornish horses were smaller and would struggle to bear the weight of heavy armour, they were far more agile, quick, and tireless.

The steed of the sole hedge knight left in the race failed to jump high enough over one of the obstacles, and he toppled down, momentum sending it sprawling through the dirt while the rider was still strapped in. When they stopped, the man's limbs, including his neck, were all bent at a wrong angle. Even the horse was crippled, whining piteously in pain.

"A pity," Renly sighed with faux regret while a handful of ladies in the crowd shrieked and gasped in surprise; a few outright fainted, though Ned wasn't sure if it was from the heat or the blood.

"Lord Stark," Mace Tyrell said as a few servants hastily carried the corpse away, and the fallen horse was put down. "I heard your daughter is a vision of grace and beauty. The tales of her loveliness had spread far and wide all the way to Highgarden. Her presence here would have been well-welcomed."

The Lord of Winterfell barely managed to suppress his sigh. This suspiciously sounded like another marriage proposal…

"It might be so," Ned grudgingly replied. "But my son, Brandon, passed away recently. I could not, in good conscience, take away any more children from my Lady Wife, even if temporary."

"Understandable," the Lord of Highgarden nodded solemnly. If nothing else, the jovial man had offered genuine condolences for his son's death when they met before the games, something which almost no other Southron lords had even bothered doing. "Lady Sansa's hand is unpromised, is it not?"

There it was, the marriage proposal. Despite the quiet tone of the conversation, the Northern lord felt the royal box was listening with rapt attention. Everyone but Robert, who was fully focused on the race below, Oberyn Martell, had gained the lead. Had the sly Lord of Highgarden chosen this place for his query deliberately? Ned suppressed his annoyance and admitted it was a brilliant move, done in the open so no one could accuse Mace Tyrell of underhanded scheming.

"Indeed," he confirmed. "Yet I am not looking for a match for my children. They are still too young, and such decisions require careful consideration."

"Too young for marriage, but perhaps a simple arrangement?" The Reachman inclined his head. "My heir, Willas Tyrell, is a man of gentle disposition and noble character."

"And a cripple," Tyrion murmured, but loudly enough for all to hear. Edmure struggled to hold his laughter from the side and started coughing instead. While Robert's attention was on the race, the Queen snickered, covering her face with a dainty pale palm.

Tyrell's face reddened, but he quickly calmed down as his son Garlan placed a steady hand on his elbow. "His leg might be lame, but his heart is golden, Lord Tyrion."

"Let us not be too hasty, Lord Tyrell," Ned placated. "Yet if you are insistent on such a match, I shall give you the same response everyone else received. Willas is welcome to visit Winterfell, so my daughter and wife can meet him in person. Any further talks are moot if neither take a liking to each other."

He was well aware a cripple like Willas Tyrell would have great difficulty travelling to Winterfell, but Mace Tyrell had no grounds even to feel offended, and the twisted grimace on his face showed that the Lord of Highgarden was well aware of the fact.

In truth, Mace's plan had been quite boldly open. A marriage between Sansa and Willas would be an easy entry into the alliance of five houses propping up Robert's rule. Ned knew his daughter would love the lush and beautiful lands of the Reach and the gaudy white walls of Highgarden - a dream come true.

Yet, House Tyrell was too ambitious for his liking. Worse, while Mace Tyrell looked like a jovial, straightforward man, Ned knew he was not without his cunning. Using his honour and joviality outspokenly made far too many underestimate him, but almost every step Tyrell took felt carefully calculated. One look at the crown prince told Ned everything he needed to know; Margaery Tyrell was already cosying up with Joffrey, giggling at something he had said, even if her eyes were not laughing. Judging by the two blazing emeralds glaring daggers at the Golden Rose of Highgarden, the Queen had also noticed it.

No, none of Ned's children would cross south of the Neck to be used as potential hostages against him.

The rest of the race saw the royal box sink into a comfortable silence, with Edmure and Tyrion exchanging the occasional lighthearted jape. Apparently, they had hit it off well during Robb's wedding.

Predictably, Oberyn Martell won the horserace, much to the disappointment of the gamblers.

***

24th Day of the 9th Moon

Renly Baratheon

Sipping on his cup of Arbour Gold, Renly couldn't help but lament. The tourney was going well enough; today had been the first part of the joust, and Loras' performance was stellar, named Knight of Flowers by the cheering crowd. The youngest knight remaining on the list with a good chance of clinching victory.

But everything else was wrong, so wrong.

As he had hoped, Ser Balon Swann had done stellar work as commander of the gold cloaks, finally putting some order in the accursed city. But the marcher knight was distant to Renly's advances - he had spewed some horse-dung about honour and duty, saying he was loyal to the King and only the King.

The Hand had finally forced Stannis to resign from his post as master of ships, and the royal fleet had returned to the docks, uselessly waiting for a new commander. Any lingering doubts that something was afoot were dispelled - his dour yet dutiful to a fault brother would rather lose control of his lauded fleet than return to the city! Robert had declined any man Renly offered for the post, which meant that Cersei or Stark would manage to get one of theirs assigned.

Margaery Tyrell was not trying to woo Robert as planned. Instead, she was circling like a graceful swan, vying for Joffrey's attention, like the myriad of maidens brought here by their brothers and fathers. Worse, the Lord of Highgarden happily chatted with Eddard Stark, seemingly discussing the Watch and Willas' future trip to Winterfell.

Even Loras was sitting beside his elder brother, Garlan, looking rather sullen. His lover had tried to convince his family, but they would not hear a word of it. When Loras said Stark was scheming with Cersei Lannister, Mace Tyrell laughed so hard that he almost choked for breath.

Why did nobody see it!? The honour and duty were just a facade; beneath, the Lord of Winterfell had a heart blacker than the foundations of the Hightower!

Last, Hugh of the Vale, Jon Arryn's squire and the final remaining member of his retinue in the city, died to Clegane's lance in today's joust before Loras could cajole anything out of him. Cersei's doing, no doubt, tying up loose ends. Meanwhile, Robert was roaring with jubilation while drowning himself in wine without a single care, as he always did. Cersei sat beside him, her green eyes full of schemes.

Renly just took another sip of wine and closed his eyes, trying to figure out a plan to thwart the growing Stark and Lannister influence.

"No!" His brother's voice thundered, drowning all the chatter and the bards, immediately stopping their performance. Robert had stood up, swaying from too much drink, face reddened, glaring at his wife. "You do not tell me what to do, woman!" Renly would be far happier at such a quarrel if the Queen did not look like a proud statue clad in gold and crimson. "I am the king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!"

Everyone stared in grave silence, only interrupted by his brother's angry heaving. Renly remained in his seat, unmoving like the rest; the court knew not to cross Robert Baratheon in his wroth.

Cersei's face looked so cold that it could have been a mask hewn from ice, but Renly was not deceived. She stood up, gathered her skirts, and just before she stormed off, a tinge of satisfaction flashed in her eyes, confirming his suspicions. Something was amiss. Even the Kingslayer got pushed away, stumbling back and falling from a single shove, "The great knight, pah. One push, and you're in the dirt with the rest o' them!" Robert's words had begun to slur drunkenly. "Give me my hammer, and no man in the realm can stand before me!"

Lannister stood up and bowed his head stiffly, muttering some agreement. Renly would come and try to placate his brother with more wine, but he was not feeling like it - not with the cold chills crawling up his spine. He excused himself, making his way out of the Great Hall, but not before making a sign at Loras. Twenty minutes later, they met in his manse on the outskirts of Aegon's hill.

"What is it, Renly?" Loras hugged him, slightly tipsy, his soft curls messy.

"Cersei is plotting something again." He exhaled, pushing down the sense of trepidation. "I don't like it."

That sobered up his young lover quickly, and his slackened face was twisted in a grimace. "The melee? Surely, the king won't go off fighting because of some drunken boasts?"

"You don't know my brother, Loras - he never backs down from a challenge, spoken in drunken bravado or not. Robert will remember on the morrow and would not back down." Renly crumpled on the nearby chair, feeling wrung out from all the scheming. "Cersei knows this and goaded him."

However, the young Knight of Flowers did not give up, "But who would dare strike their king in the melee?" Gods, some days Renly forgot how young and naive Loras still was - a boy on the cusp of manhood who did not know how deep the viper's den went. It was that sense of righteous innocence that had lit the flames of passion.

"House Lannister does not lack for friends. Gods know Stark does not either." His lover's face scrunched up in thought, and the Lord of Storm's End poured himself a cup of wine from the pitcher on the nearby table and emptied it in one breath.

"Surely the kingsguard will defend His Grace in the fight?"

Renly scoffed. "Who? The Queen's brother? Greenfield? Cersei has sunk her claws in all of them. All but Selmy, who has only signed up for the lists"

"But… to kill His Grace in the melee?"

Renly took a generous gulp of wine from the pitcher as he tasted the words in his mind. Truth be told, he did not think Cersei this bold, but he had been wrong before.

"People die in tourneys all the time - we already have three dead in this one." The more Renly thought about it, the more it made sense. Who would say a thing when Robert fell in the melee? His royal brother had not even swung a sword or hammer in years, and many a man died in every tourney; it would easily look like a mishap.

"But… there are nearly a thousand contestants signed up for it - we don't even know which bracket His Grace will enter." Loras' words made him grimace. He had almost forgotten the absurd number of men who had signed up for the melee, even after the Imp had decided to charge two golden dragons' entry fee. "We don't even know who would be the Queen's men, and I can hardly protect the king when I did not sign for the melee."

His lover had decided to save his strength for the joust and joust alone - where all the glory was. While Loras was good enough with a sword, many were far better and stronger than him because of age and experience - his strength lay with horseriding and the lance.

Alas, that left him in a conundrum.

"But that also means Cersei knows not."

Renly clenched the pitcher in thought. Despite his misgivings about the Queen, the lioness was a cunning and intelligent shrew. What would he do in her boots?

Cersei would not use her men for this. Nor did she need to, as many hedge knights or Crownlanders loitering in the feasts or parade grounds would be happy to do it. Far too many men would take Lannister gold to kill their own mothers, let alone the king.

Plans spun in his head. Just as Cersei could have men to make trouble, others could be convinced to guard his royal brother's back. It would require some subtlety, but it was not impossible.

***

25th Day of the 9th Moon

Robert Baratheon

His patience was dwindling as the two useless golden-haired shits could not even help him don his armour properly.

"Your Grace," Lancel said, looking like a babe about to cry. "It's made too small, it won't fit!" With a fumble, the steel gorget he was trying to fit around his neck dropped to the ground.

"Seven hells," he roared at the two useless cravens, who jumped like some skittish deer. "Piss on both of you, can't even put a man's armour on properly. Squires, they say. Pah, I say they're swineherds dressed up in silk!"

"The lads are not at fault." Robert turned around only to see a tired Ned accompanied by Selmy. "You're too fat for your armour, Robert."

He dared?!

The king emptied his horn of beer and angrily tossed it on the sleeping furs. "Fat? Is that how you speak to your king?!" Ned nodded, gravely serious, and Robert couldn't help but guffaw. "Damn you, Ned. Why are you always right?!" Even the squires were smiling nervously, the golden shits. "You," he rounded on them, making them jump nervously again. Gods, he could not have found more spineless chits in the whole realm, even if he tried. "Yes, both of you. You heard the Hand - the King is too fat for his armour. Go find Ser Aron Santagar and tell him I need the breastplate stretcher. Now, damn you! What are you waiting for?" 

The two squires fumbled out of the tent, tripping over each other. Robert barely managed to keep his laughter in, but as soon as they were out of sight, he dropped back on his chair and roared with laughter. Even Selmy and Ned let out a chuckle - it was a good thing to see the North had not frozen all the cheer in his friend.

"Ah, I wish to be there to see Santagar's face," the King snorted.

Ned shook his head with amusement before his face turned as severe as a storm. "Word is you're trying to fight in the melee, Robert?"

"Not you too, Ned," he groused. At least he had not mentioned his quarrel with Cersei last night. The damned shrew was hiding in the castle now, too scared to show her face. He'd show her the Demon of the Trident could still fight!

"It's unbecoming of a king to take part in the games," his friend persisted, eyes filled with concern.

"Even the king is a man, like every other." Robert slammed on his chest. "And like all the other men, I have needs, damn it. A gulp of wine in my throat, a squealing maiden in my bed, and a mighty steed beneath my legs." Ned did not let up his stern look. How was it that his friend could still shame him with just a glance as if they were both still children? "Seven hells, Ned. I just want to hit someone!"

"Your Grace," Barristan sighed, face weary, "who would dare strike you in the melee?"

"Why, all of them, damn it! If they can. And the last man left standing…"

"...will be you," Ned finished for him, face gravely serious. "Ser Barristan is right - no man would dare risk the royal ire by striking you."

The truth rang in his words, but Robert was unwilling. He wanted to smash something with his warhammer, to hear the crunch as the armour folded and bones broke beneath his might. "Are you telling me those prancing cravens will let me win?"

Ned nodded solemnly, and Selmy bowed his head in silent accord.

They dared… they dared!

Robert's hands grabbed his damned breastplate, grown too small for his mighty frame, and hurled it at Selmy, who dodged deftly. He wanted nothing more than to grab his warhammer and start swinging at all those fools outside. All of them would fall to his fury!

But what use would it be when all of them ran away like cravens, refusing to give him a proper fight?

Others take them all!

"Out," he spat coldly, his blood raging like a storm. "Out before I kill you!" Selmy fled like a scared doe, and Ned hesitantly turned around to leave. Ah, Ned, his dear and most loyal friend, who had been with him through thick and thin. Ned who would speak the truth, no matter how little one wanted to hear it. Ned, who Robert brought here to do just those two things. "Not you, Ned."

They were supposed to have fun together, just like the good old times. Yet his friend was always busy with this and that, ruling, just like Jon Arryn had been.

Robert grabbed his horn, wheeled around to fill it with beer from the barrel in the corner, and shoved it into Ned's hands. "Drink."

To his surprise, his friend chuckled and took a generous swig before belching with a grimace.

"You know, Robert, if your blood is still running hot, why not partake in the boulder lifting?"

"Bah, you say that as if the fools won't let me win anyway," Robert groused, slumping defeated in his chair, rueing the day he foolishly decided to claim the Iron Throne. Alas, to be foolish enough to curse himself with a crown!

"It is one thing to strike the king, another to test their mettle against him in a context of strength," Ned said with a wise nod and took another swig of beer.

Robert stilled. It was true, was it not?

Ned could not lie even to save his honour - even now, his face was the picture of earnest honesty.

"Fine," Robert grabbed another horn of ale and filled it before taking a swig. It was not the same as fighting, but it was better than sitting around. Perhaps this would finally get his blood running with excitement again. "I ought to show those prancing cravens who the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms is!"