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.

25th Day of the 9th Moon

The Red Viper

The air almost vibrated with excitement in the bustling arena, and the crowd's roar drowned everything else.

It was a traditional old-style melee; everyone was on foot, with no groups or teams.

The tourney grounds were filled with contestants, but the Red Viper only had eyes for the stout knight clad in heavy, ornate steel with a black manticore painted on his shield. After years of waiting, the gods finally smiled upon him, for Lorch was in the same round. It was far from how Oberyn imagined his chance would come, but he would take anything after seventeen years.

An impudent hedge knight of middling height with three brown mice upon his tattered surcoat foolishly blocked his way. A warm-up!

His opponent warily approached, arming sword in hand, half-hiding behind his shield. Oberyn, not wanting to risk the tourney spear over such a foe, stabbed it into the ground before unsheathing a longsword from his belt. They traded a few testing blows, and the Prince quickly established the knight had sloppy footwork, probably lacking a proper teacher or too used to fighting on horseback. His strikes from the left were also weak, and he relied on the shield far too much.

Oberyn feinted a strike to the neck, forcing the man to lift his shield, and smacked away the flat of the arming sword with his armoured glove. It was a risky thing to do, but all the blades in the tourney were blunted. Before the knight could retreat, Oberyn slammed his body into his foe while hooking the heel of his back leg, sending him sprawling on the ground. The hedge knight quickly yielded, allowing the Red Viper to grab his spear and go after his prey once more.

Thankfully, Lorch was still not knocked out, fighting against a Horpe, judging by the three death's head moths on his surcoat. Skilfully, Oberyn danced around his foes, exchanging a few probing taps whilst carefully avoiding further confrontation lest the chance for revenge slip away.

Amory fought quite aggressively with his heavy plate and used his strength to his advantage, eventually disarming the Moth knight and forcing him to yield, but losing his shield to the Stormlander's warhammer. The moment their fight had ended, Oberyn lunged forward, striking the weak point on the side of the visored barbute helmet. The blow didn't do much to the helmet, but the recoil hurt Lorch's neck and rang his head like a bell, evident by his wobbly legs, and prevented him from picking himself up.

Oberyn didn't hesitate to press his advantage, duelling etiquette discarded as his spear twirled forward in a storm of steel. Lorch, however, managed to find his footing and fend off most of the strikes. The blunted speartip could never do fatal damage through the armour - steel, padded doublet, and ringmail, but the sides were good enough to cut the leather straps on Lorch's gorget.

Yet all that armour weighed on his niece's murderer, and the heavy helmet limited his vision greatly. The Red Viper, wearing only half plate, took full advantage and used sweeping strikes to attack from the edges of Amory's vision, aiming for his head to keep him disoriented while poking at his gorget. A powerful strike to the helmet with a warhammer could easily snap a heavily armoured knight's neck, but while sweeping blows from the spear were not as powerful, they could easily daze and even knock him out.

By the time Lorch managed to gather himself to counterattack, Oberyn had succeeded - one of the leather straps was already hanging; the gorget was no longer sealed tight, allowing a finger to slip in through the gap with the breastplate.

Luring his foe with a feint, Oberyn mustered all his strength to give a devastating blow to the man's head with the butt of his spear, stunning him. As Lorch swayed unsteadily, the spear was discarded, and the Red Viper had drawn his longsword, and holding it by the blade, he jammed it up with all his might through the gap under the gorget.

He felt the blunted blade bite into the flesh, rammed it again and again, and twisted for good measure, Amory's feeble gurgling music to his ears, and a grin blossomed on his face at the man's agony.

Oberyn's triumph was short-lived as he turned around, only to face a mountain of muscle clad in heavy brigandine. For a short moment, he thought the Mountain had come to flank him. But no, Gregor Clegane had been banned from melees after killing a few contestants too many, and the man wore a grey direwolf livery on his surcoat, not the three black hounds of the Cleganes. With such size, this could only be the Giant of Winterfell.

Most of the fighting had concluded by now, and everyone had stepped aside as Walder the Red Wake effortlessly twirled a heavy poleax, producing a brutal swooshing sound that hummed through the air and spoke loudly about the weight of the weapon. Oberyn did not have a chance to withdraw his sword before the sound of steel cleaving through the wind approached.

***

He blinked, the world far too bright for his taste, and a groan rolled from his throat. Thankfully, Ellaria's concerned face loomed over him.

"What happened?" His voice came out hoarse.

"You killed Lorch while the Red Wake fended off other contestants," Nymeria's giddy lilt came from the side.

"Then he knocked you out when you seemed all too joyful in your success." His paramour gave him a wry smile as she ran her delicate hand through his curls.

"Bah," Obara spat. "Why would the Northman help?"

"Long winters make for a hardy folk, and there's little place for deception. Honesty and valour are more valuable than gold north of the Neck, and Lorch and the Mountain lack both." Oberyn shuffled, only to wince when his side protested. "Fuck."

"Drink." Ellaria brought the wineskin to his lips, and he gulped thirstily. The strong Dornish wine felt like fire in his throat, invigorating his wariness. "You won't be doing any more fighting, it seems."

"Any trouble?" He coughed, tongue still aflame with heavy spice.

"No, a dozen fools perished in the melee so far, and Lorch is just one of many," Nymeria snorted. "Might be a few more will die before the madness ends. I've never seen a tourney so bloody!"

"Your actions have attracted some undue attention; both the King and the Hand were looking."

It took him nearly half an hour to come back to his senses, and even then, Oberyn had to walk with a crutch like some cripple because his side ached. The Red Wake had gotten him good, even if he couldn't remember anything other than heavy, ominous whooshing from that part of the melee.

Still, success felt like he was in Ynanna's sweet embrace; Rhaenys's murderer was finished. Clegane would be next, and then the old Lion himself. But, there was only so much luck one could get - the Mountain had been knocked off the lists last evening by a Dustin madman, who rode like the devil himself. The expected rage from the rabid dog had not come, probably because there were two scores of burly Northmen nearby, the Red Wake at their helm, all looking eager for a brawl.

And now that Oberyn had been knocked out of all the games, he could only tend to his wounds while watching and studying Gregor Clegane's every move and trying to enjoy the festivities. Moving was too risky with the Hand and the king's undue attention. Yet revenge was sweeter than honey, and The Red Viper hungered for more.

He had woken up just in time to see the final opening round of the melee. Ser Androw Crane, the famed wielder of Red Wing, and Gyles Rowan, another Valyrian Steel wielder, proved themselves worthy swordsmen even with tourney blades in hand. Along with Grance Morrigen, they were the last three standing, thus proceeding to the finals.

The other preliminary rounds had ended as expected; over thirty contestants would fight in the final tomorrow, most of them men of renown, tried and tested in battle from every corner of the realm. The Northmen had made for a strong showing despite their drably plain equipment - Oberyn could count at least a handful of men who qualified from the cold wastes, including the Red Wake, a Liddle, a Wull, and two Flints.

Boulder lifting, on the other hand, was far more amusing to watch. To everyone's surprise, the king had risen from his high seat to join the contestants. This particular game seemed to require not only strength but plenty of technique, so the final rounds saw the competitors dwindling quickly.

"BARATHEON!" The crowd was chanting madly as the Demon of the Trident himself was red-faced, struggling to lift a boulder that weighed thirty-five stone. Years of drinking, feasting, and whoring had made him go round with fat, but bulging muscles still hid underneath. With much grunting and puffing, the weight was deposited atop the thick oaken barrel.

The other contestants, Harwin Belmore and Morgan Liddle, failed to lift the thirty-five stone boulder, and the crowd exploded in jubilation.

Robert's hearty laugh boomed above all the commotion as he raised his meaty fists in victory.

***

1st Day of the 10th Moon

Near Vaes Kwemo

The Gift Bearers

The Fallen Kingdom of Sarnor was a lamentable sight. The once golden fields of wheat stretching to the horizon were no more, replaced with grassland and the creeping forest. Sheep, aurochs, and goats were all gone, replaced by all sorts of wild beasts prowling through the lush woodland instead.

Not a single village or an inn was in sight; all foolish or daring enough to try and settle down again had been quickly enslaved or slaughtered by the passing Dothraki hordes. One would even think the land had been untouched by human hand if not for the dragon road, the handful of persistent ruins that had not yet given in to time, or the creeping vegetation. The Valyrian Road was a thick, monstrous ribbon of fused black stone as far as the eyes could see, twenty feet wide and straight as a spear. One of the final wonders of the fallen Freehold seemed to shrug off the vestiges of time, still smooth and unblemished by the elements.

Even to this day, the magical road allowed for easy, unimpeded travel, making any caravans far swifter than dirt roads would allow.

"And the dragon roads end here, at Sarnath," Maester Arren supplied helpfully from his donkey. The enthusiastic man was in his mid-thirties with balding auburn hair and freshly forged chain and serving in Ramsgate before the Lord of White Harbour bid him to join the expedition as a man well-versed in Essosi history, geography, and languages. "We should be there before sunset if the caravan master is correct."

The Northern delegation led by Ser Donnel Locke and Robar Royce had six more knights, a handful of squires, and a score of men at arms. After riding hard to Qohor, they finally joined a caravan on the way to Vaes Dothrak to avoid going deeper into Dothraki territory on their lonesome, as the horselords tended to attack armed travellers on sight to test their mettle. The traders welcomed them with open arms, only asking the Westerosi retinue to guard the rear and aid them in case of a fight.

"So much fertile land wasted," Donnel Locke shook his head, looking at the lush grassy woodlands and the multitude of springs and rivers spreading as far as the eye could see.

"The Dothraki consider the land to be their Mother, and it is a sin to wound her with ploughs, spades, or axes. Fields, towns, farms are the first to be put to the torch when the horselords pass by." The maester's explanation turned the mood sombre. They had encountered a smaller Khalasar two days prior, and the caravan master had to gift them a tribute to pass.

"Savages," Robar Royce murmured with distaste, loudly enough for only Donnel to hear.

It was almost unthinkable for the Westerosi to allow such blatant robbery, but the maester's ample warnings had them watch with a measure of disbelief. The bribe consisted of a handful of silver and bronze trinkets, just enough to satisfy the ageing Khal. Considering trade unmanly was so ironically amusing when they did it with such blatant gusto under the guise of 'gifting', even haggling over the value of the gift.

Despite lacking the concept of 'trade', the horselord had gifted a few fine pelts and exotic hides in return, recouping the loss the caravan would have otherwise suffered.

"Sarnor is known as the City of the Tall Towers," the young maester enthusiastically began prattling on. "It was said it had hundreds of spires, some over three hundred feet, and all of them a work of art-"

"Didn't you say the Dothraki call it the City of Worms?" Donnel interrupted with a laugh.

"The story says after Mazor Alexi perished in the Field of Crows, the gates were opened from within, and the Dothraki loathe cravens."

"Well, there's your city," Robar pointed ahead, where a cracked, ruined wall barely fought off the clinging treeline, and the gate had long turned into a crumbling arch. "My father always said even the mightiest walls are only as strong as those who man them."

"But… where are the towers?" Arren pulled on his auburn whiskers in indignation.

"Those who survived the sack were probably beset by the vestiges of time." Donnel shrugged. "There are many ruins scattered around the North, and only bare stones remain."

The balding maester looked crestfallen at the sight. "The Palace with a Thousand Rooms was supposed to be bigger than Harrenhal and more magnificent than Summerhall…"

"And both are barely more than a crumbling piece of masonry," Robar shrugged dismissively. "Considering those savage scavengers, they probably only left the charred stones behind." And indeed, much to the maester's woe, Valyria's staunchest ally had been reduced to a footnote in the pages of history. Vaes Kwemo was in a pitiful state, the once beautiful city replaced with collapsing ruins and cracked stones, slowly but surely devoured by the hungry vegetation.

"Gods, at least another moon to the fucking savage city," Donnel groused when the caravan finally stopped in what once could have been an enormous square but was now overtaken by weeds and roots, peeking through the dirt and the cracked pavement. "I just hope the horselord is there. I never thought my eyes would get bored of this endless deluge of grass and trees."

"At least there is an abundance of game, and the caravan has a trapper or two to make you those comfortable furs you enjoy." Robar grinned at the Northman's attire, which included an assortment of pelts from a Hrakr's fur to a strange breed of wolf the traders called a hyena.

Donnel Locke snorted as he took a slow, dismissive measure of the Royce Knight's own attire, a padded surcoat made from exotic hides and a new fancy red breastplate he had purchased from the Qohorik smiths.

"Bah, the North is still better."

The maester groaned from the side as the two knights bickered over the oldest of feuds - which kingdom was better? It quickly became an argument over past wars, most long buried in the vestiges of time. Yet even their sharp words lacked any heat as if they were arguing for the sake of it. Perhaps this book would feature the unlikely friendship of a Northman and a Valeman side by side against the savage lands of the Far East.

***

18th Day of the 10th Moon

The Bowels of the Red Keep

Deep beneath the surface of Aegon's hill, in the darkest corner of Maegor's passages, utterly bereft of the warm touch of the sun, two robed figures, both stout, clung to a flickering torch each.

"The tunnels have grown dangerous of late," one said, chill clinging to the damp stones despite the sweltering heat outside.

"You should not have taken that silly risk," the second chastised with a slick Essosi accent as they moved through the darkness. "It was far too early. What was it you said? Patience is our greatest strength."

"Yes, but the Hand, oh the Hand. He seeks to undermine everything we set out to do. In three moons, the man has toppled the board completely instead of playing the game by the rules! Stannis dismissed, Littlefinger slain, and Slynt replaced. Another year like this, and the Iron Throne will be the strongest it has ever been in a century."

"He is not looking into the old Falcon's death?"

"Nay, for all the talk of honour, the man seems to be pursuing his interests first and has placed his full backing behind the throne." The man's footsteps were as soft as silk despite his heavy leather boots, the arming sword and dirk on his belt making no sound. Clad in boiled leather and a simple byrnie, he could easily be mistaken for a man-at-arms with his scarred face, rugged beard and thick cap.

The second man absentmindedly tugged on his forked yellow beard. "If one Hand can die, why not a second?"

"I tried," the first hissed out. "But a sorcerer is not so easily felled. His prowess is greater than I envisioned - he somehow found out about the Tears of Lys!"

"I thought you said the Westerosi hated wizards and magic?"

"The Quiet Wolf is far more dangerous than we thought. But," he paused as the flames licked at the cold air, sending small puffs of smoke, "there is some opportunity for discord."

The shadows danced as the torch swayed through the air, and the silence slowly stretched.

"The young stag is prancing about, but to no avail. It matters not; the Princess is with child. Once a son is born, the Khal will bestir himself."

"Risky," murmured the first one. "Her brother is a fool, wasting his sister on the savage. Convincing the horselords to cross the Narrow Sea might yet prove impossible. If a daughter is born, the Khal might turn his attention elsewhere. The Company cannot fight the realm on its lonesome."

"Nothing worthwhile has ever been easy, my friend," deep laughter rumbled through the stilted air. "Little difficulties have never stopped us before. This is merely another obstacle to leap over."

"Yet the obstacles only grow greater and greater. With Stark alive and entrenched in court, we cannot hope to claim legitimacy. Even now, the Faith has grown too strong along the Mander, and my birds cannot find a place to roost. I suspect the Most Devout have taken control over the Stranger's wives."

"The zealots lost their strength long ago," the second figure waved dismissively. "And if the Hand proves too great an obstacle, he can be removed by… other means. Valar Morghulis."

"The cost would be unimaginable, and he is far from our only hurdle. The mother of wolves is not like her sister, and his heir is old enough to rally his banners."

"A young pup is not to be feared. Keep working your magic, then," the forked beard replied, breathless from the long trek through the tunnels. "The nobles are too blind, too proud and prickly. Fan the flames of rivalry, pour oil into the ambitions, and sow the seeds of doubt and division. Chaos will be our greatest ally. Justice and fairness are dangerous things. The Hand has stepped on many feet, and the longer he lingers, the more foes he makes."

"Even the finest juggler cannot keep a hundred balls in the air forever."

"You're far more than a mere juggler, my friend. A true sorcerer, I say." The man with the accent reached out to pat the other man's shoulder. "All I ask is that you work your magic awhile longer."

They reached a small, round juncture and halted on the damp floor atop the worn mosaic of the three-headed dragon. Under the torch's wavering light, the black and red tiles became indistinguishable whirl as the colours merged.

"I must have more gold, then. And a hundred more birds."

"So many? The ones you want are not easy to find…"

"So is the task you ask of me, my friend," came the soft reply.

***

19th day of the 10th Moon

The Lord of Winterfell

The urgent council meeting caught him without his companion, the direwolf preferring to sleep the sweltering heat away, where the crystalline blade kept the chambers cool.

"The whore is pregnant!" Robert slammed his fist on the table as loud as a thunderclap. "I warned you this would happen, Ned. Back in the Barrowlands, I warned you, but you and your gifts. Well, enough of gifts and plots, I want them dead. Both the mother and son, and that fool Viserys too. Is that plain enough for you? I want them dead!"

The king was red-faced and puffing with rage.

The rest of the councillors were observing with caution, faces still. "And the Khal would simply forget and forgive that his wife and child have been slain? Come on, Robert, Jon taught you better than this."

"If only I didn't listen to him, the dragonspawn would be long dead. You cannot mean to do nothing when the shadow of the headman's steel hangs over my neck!"

"Only a shadow of a shadow. Sailing a hundred thousand Dothraki screamers and their hordes across the Narrow Sea is far easier said than done, Your Grace," Lord Stark's face had grown as cold as ice. "Five thousand willing ships are not so easy to find. There will be no threat if the child is a girl or fails to live to adulthood. Would the Khal bestir himself to go to a faraway land over the whims of a woman or for a daughter? Should he be so daring, we'll throw him back into the sea."

Robert took a swallow of wine and glared across the table. "Aye, Stannis would drown him in the sea, you said. But now you've dismissed my brother from the small council. Would Sebaston Farman know how to fight at sea?" His gaze settled on Tyrion, who looked as expressionless as a statute, before moving on to the Hand and then Renly. "Would Wyman Manderly lead the fleet or count some coppers? Or that glorified wine-maker Redwyne? Why are all of you silent? Answer me, damn it!"

"You're trying to provoke a war now over something that might never happen, Robert," Ned tiredly ran a hand through his hair. Gods, the hatred of House Targaryen had truly settled like madness in his friend, chasing away any and all reason. "The girl has done you no wrong, and for all you know, this Khal Drogo will get bored of Daenerys and take another wife. And then another, as the horselords oft do. Viserys is a half-mad fool and will get himself killed sooner or later."

"How well can this… Jorah Mormont be trusted?" Tyrion finally spoke out, gaze calculating.

"Ser Jorah craves a royal pardon dearly," Varys said softly, wringing his soft, powdered hands together. "He would not dare deceive me; the princess surely is with a child."

The new master of coin took a small sip from his goblet. "Did not Daenerys' mother have notorious difficulties with conceiving? It seems we're truly jumping at shadows here."

"Rhaella Targaryen still managed to produce two sons and a daughter. Sooner or later, one of Daenerys' babes would live, Lord Tyrion." The eunuch gave a wry smile. "It is unwise to ignore such a threat to the realm. A claimant to the throne leading a hundred thousand horsemen at his back could spell doom for the kingdoms."

"I want Stannis back!" Robert smacked his palm on the table with such force it began to crack. All the councillors winced from the sudden strike, and the groan of woods reverberated between the walls.

"I shall write a summon at once." Ned bowed and grabbed a roll of parchment from the helpful yet confused Tommen.

The king, however, still did not seem appeased and looked akin to an angry bull. "You should not have dismissed Stannis in the first place! I want him back here commanding my fleet, and I want that whore and her dragonspawn dead!"

"That dragonspawn is of little threat to you, Robert." The Lord of Winterfell stiffly shook his head. "You would drag the realm into a war over an unborn babe?"

Varys gave the king his usual oily, reassuring smile and placed a soft, powdered hand on Ned's sleeve. "I understand your qualms, Lord Stark, I truly do. It's a terrible thing we contemplate, a vile thing. Yet we who presume to rule must do such deeds for the good of the realm, however much it pains us. Besides, there are ways to get rid of Daenerys and her child without implicating the crown."

Renly shrugged, seeming entirely too satisfied with where things were going. "We ought to have killed Viserys and his sister years ago, but His Grace had made the mistake of listening to Jon Arryn's misplaced mercy."

"Kindness to your foes is cruelty to oneself, Lord Stark," Varys added with a titter.

"Yet many of the loyalists were not only spared but pardoned of all and any crimes," Ned steeled himself and glared at Renly. "Lord Mace Tyrell still holds Highgarden despite starving you and your brother Stannis for a year. Ser Barristan here slew a dozen of our friends on the Trident. When he was taken down, grievously wounded and near death, Roose Bolton advised to slit his throat, yet your brother said, 'I will not kill a man for loyalty, not for fighting well' and sent his own maester to tend to the Bold's wounds. And you, Lord Varys, are you not enjoying Robert's mercy now, after faithfully serving the Mad King for years?" The Spider squirmed under his gaze, but Ned looked at his friend coldly. "Would that the same man were here today."

Robert had the decency to avert his gaze for a moment but quickly shook his head. "It is not the same. I can forgive people for serving faithfully."

"But not children for being born?" Ned tried to keep the scorn out of his voice but seemed to have failed, judging by the king's reddening face. "Your Grace, I never knew you to fear Rhaegar. Have the years unmanned you so to tremble before the shadows of a babe unborn?"

"No more, Ned," Robert, eyes blazing with fury, warned with a meaty finger pointed at him. "Not another word. Have you forgotten who is king here?"

"No, Your Grace." Eddard sighed inwardly. "Have you?"

"Enough!" The king's roar whipped like a thunderclap. "I'm sick of talk. I will be done with this or be damned."

"At His Grace's command," Varys bowed deeply.

"We should have killed the Targaryens long ago," Renly agreed.

Pycelle hemmed and hawed but also bowed his head, face sad and weary. "It is as His Grace commands. The Targaryens are too dangerous to be left alive. Once I counselled Aerys as I counsel King Robert, I bear this girl and her child no ill will. Yet I ask you this - should war come, how many would die? How many would be slaughtered fighting? How many towns will burn? How many babes would be ripped from their cradles and perish at the savage's blade?" The Grandmaester cleared his throat, wiping an errant tear from his wrinkled face. "Is it not wiser, even kinder, that Daenerys Targaryen should die now so ten thousand might live?"

"Kinder," Varys echoed. "Truly well-spoken, Grand Maester. Should the gods grant Daenerys a son in their caprice, the realm would bleed."

"Should the girl perish, the Iron Throne would be the first suspect," Tyrion countered, taking a generous mouthful of wine. "And we'll get the war we fear anyway. We might as well prepare to fight either way."

"There are ways it would not be traced to us," Varys reminded quietly.

"There is honour in facing a foe on the battlefield," Selmy finally raised his weary gaze from the table and spoke. "But there's none in killing him in his mother's womb."

"Kinder," Robert looked at Pycelle with wonder, as if he had not heard the old knight, and turned to his Hand. "Yes, it would be a kindness to get the world rid of the dragonspawn."

"And what of your grandmother, Robert?" Ned chastised. "Rhaelle Targaryen's blood runs through your veins."

"A woman that perished in the fires of Summerhall before I was born," the king waved the words away as if they were some annoying fly. "I have nothing to do with her! I am king here, damn it, and I want Aerys' dragonspawn dead! The question is how."

"Do it yourself, Robert. The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. It's so easy to kill someone far away on a whim. See her tears, hear her last words. You owe her that much, at least." His hand searched for the comfort of the hilt of his sword but found nought as the icy blade had remained in his chambers.

"Gods," the king's face had gone purple as if he was barely able to contain his fury. "You mean it, don't you? You damned honourable fool!" Robert picked up his cup but found it empty and flung it to shatter against the wall. "I am out of wine and out of patience. Enough of this. Just have it done."

Ned sighed tiredly. How do you help someone who does not care to be helped? The gods seemed to be laughing at him from above, and just when everything was going so well. "I will not be part of this reckless folly. Do as you will, but do not ask me to put my seal on it."

The silence was deafening for a few heartbeats. Defiance was not a dish tasted often, it seemed, and all of the councillors looked at Ned with open surprise while Robert was blinking with incomprehension. Realisation eventually sank in, and an angry royal finger was stabbed in his direction. "You are the King's Hand, Lord Stark. You will do as I command, or I will find me a Hand who will."

"I wish him every success," Ned said, unclasping the heavy silver pin and placing it on the table before Robert. Cat had turned out right in the end; his friend was gone, and the king had taken his place. The fearless warrior, unmatched on the battlefield, had been broken by the weight of a crown. "I thought you were a better man than this, Robert. I thought we had made for a nobler king."

"Out," the words were choked out with fury, the king's face purple with rage. "Out, damn you, I am done with you! What are you waiting for? Go, run back to Winterfell. And make certain I never look at your face again, or I will have your head on a spike!"

Heart pained, Ned bowed and turned to leave, any hesitation gone. He could feel Robert's gaze on his back, burning a hole through his silken cloak.

"On Braavos, there's a society called the Faceless Men," Pycelle's voice echoed behind, resuming the discussion. "It is said they make the death look like a mishap-" The door closed behind Ned, silencing the voices. The white cloak guarding outside, Mandon Moore, regarded him dispassionately from the corner of his eyes but remained otherwise silent and unmoving.

Why did Robert refuse to see his fury would plunge the realm into an inevitable war? Alas, the king's word was law. Ned knew this well enough, but to see a royal order drag the realm into madness was painful. He couldn't help but wonder if any of the royal councillors had advised Aerys against his follies.

Shaking his head, the Lord of Winterfell banished the ghastly thoughts from his mind. The words were spoken and could be taken back no more than an arrow after leaving the bowstring.

"We're going back to Winterfell?" Tommen's hopeful voice behind almost made the Northern Lord jump.

He had not noticed his page following.

"Aye, until you turn twelve, or His Grace summons you back," Ned said after a moment, shaking his head as the golden-haired boy almost leapt in joy. At least someone else was happy to leave the city.

The sky roiled above, a storm brewing within the clouds. If only the rain could wash out the accursed den of fools and cravens. When Ned crossed the bailey back to the Tower of the Hand, he was met with Vayon, who had a roll of parchment.

"A letter for you from Winterfell, my lord Hand," the steward bowed.

"Hand no longer."

Ned broke the familiar direwolf sigil, and a wry smile found its way to his face at Luwin's words. The gods saw fit to provide a ray of sunlight in the darkest days; he was to be a father again and a grandfather to boot. But the last part had chilled his blood; Benjen had brought news of Jon's ambitiously daring plan.

Gods, when had his boy grown so reckless?

The inked words, however, made up his mind. What had Howland advised him again? Yes, return home at the first opportunity. And it had readily landed on his lap, with a royal order to back it.

"The king and I have quarrelled." Ned exhaled slowly. "We shall be returning to Winterfell at once."

Vayon was dismayed, quite probably because the last of the effects had arrived just last week. He spied a look at the happy Tommen standing to the side and hesitated. But the steward quickly swallowed his objection and nodded. "I shall begin making arrangements at once, my lord. We might need up to a fortnight to prepare everything for the journey."

I will have your head on a spike!

Ned frowned. Would his friend truly harm him? But no, he had challenged the royal pride now and openly at that.

Half a year ago, he would laugh at the motion, but now… now he was not sure he had ever known Robert.

"I want us gone before sunrise. Tell Jory to get guardsmen to help you with the packing and have the less important things shipped at a later date." It would be best not to risk it in the end, and the sooner he left this accursed city, the better. Ned paused for a moment. "Get in touch with Ser Wylis. We'll be using his ships to get out of here."

It took him half an hour to find Howland Reed, who already knew what was happening.

"Should I tell the Northmen to get ready to leave with us?"

"As much as the Manderly ships will allow. Robert wants to make war to the east when the true foes are in the Lands of Always Winter."

"The South would be of little use in such a war, and you know this, Ned. But at least with the Night's Watch secure, you will no longer be fighting alone. Perhaps leaving now is for the best."

"Indeed," Ned grudgingly agreed. "There is little that can be done here in this vipers' den."

"It might be prudent to leave some Northmen behind, lest the Queen find herself in need of swords with all those schemers."

The Lord of Winterfell held no love for Cersei Lannister or Joffrey, but his friend made a good point. His tentative allies could only remain here in danger with the poisoner still at large. "See who volunteers, and make sure you notify Her Grace before we leave."

Winter, looking shaggy as if he had just roused himself from his nap, softly padded over and gave his hand a reassuring lick.