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Eddard Stark
Ned Stark stood in the main chamber of the Tower of the Hand, his hands clasped behind his back, fighting the urge to reach for the dagger at his belt. Two of his most trusted men flanked him—Jory Cassel on his right, Harwin on his left. Both had their hands near their sword hilts, their expressions wary.
The door opened.
Ser Jaime Lannister entered. His hair, that infamous Lannister gold, looked almost like a crown in the flickering flames. Those green eyes—as green as wildfire, Ned thought darkly—swept the chamber with its usual arrogance.
Ned's expression hardened to stone. Sixteen years had passed since he'd watched this man sit on the Iron Throne with the Mad King's blood still wet on his blade, but the memory remained fresh as a wound that refused to heal. The Kingslayer. The man who had broken the most sacred oath a knight could swear.
"What do you want?" Ned's voice came out cold enough to freeze wine. He made no move to welcome the knight, offered no courtesy. The Kingslayer was not welcome in his tower. Would never be welcome.
Jaime's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Lord Stark. How pleasant to see you as well."
"I asked you a question." Ned kept his voice level, but he could feel the contempt bleeding through each word. "State your business or leave."
Beside him, Jory and Harwin tensed further. One wrong move from the Kingslayer and they would draw steel.
Jaime's gaze swept the room again, taking in the two guards, the closed doors, the narrow space. "I would like to speak with you privately, Lord Stark."
"No." The word was final. "You have no right to demand privacy in my tower, Kingslayer."
The Kingslayer seemed annoyed by this, and then he said. "It is for your...son. Jon Snow."
Ned felt his entire body go rigid. The emphasis Jaime placed on "your son" those two words that made Ned's blood run cold.
"What about Jon?" The words came out as a growl.
Jaime met his gaze steadily. "Please, Lord Stark. This is... delicate. I need to speak with you alone."
Ned stared at the Kingslayer for a long moment. What did Jaime Lannister want with Jon? What could possibly bring him here, to the Tower of the Hand, at this hour, asking for privacy? Every instinct screamed trap, deception, danger.
"Jory. Harwin." Ned didn't take his eyes off Jaime. "Wait outside in the corridor."
"My lord—" Jory began, protest clear in his voice.
"Outside." Ned repeated, firmer this time. "Now."
Jory and Harwin exchanged a glance, clearly uncomfortable with leaving their lord alone with a man who'd killed a king. But they were Stark men, and they obeyed. Still, they moved slowly toward the door, casting wary looks at Jaime as they went. The door closed behind them with a heavy thud that echoed in the sudden silence.
Ned and Jaime were alone.
The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Ned's hand moved to rest on the dagger at his belt. He watched Jaime's every movement.
"Speak," Ned commanded. "What do you want with my—" He caught himself. "With Jon?"
"Is the boy awake?" Jaime asked. "I would like to see him."
Ned's voice turned colder still, if such a thing were possible. "You've seen him before. At the tourneys. In the training yard. Why this sudden need to see him now, in the middle of the night?"
A flash of irritation crossed Jaime's handsome features. Ned saw the famous Lannister temper stirring beneath that golden exterior. But Jaime reined it in, forcing his voice to remain measured.
"I'm not here to start anything, Lord Stark. I just want to see the boy. To speak with him."
"Jon is still healing from his wounds." Ned said with contempt. "The Mountain almost killed him. A monster trying to kill a boy—though I suppose that's to be expected from Lannister men."
The insult landed like a slap. Jaime's jaw clenched tight, his green eyes flashing with anger. "I had nothing to do with that," he said sharply, his voice rising. "Whatever happened in that melee—"
He stopped himself, visibly forcing calm back into his features. He took a breath, then another, until his voice steadied. "I am not here to harm anyone, Lord Stark. Do you really think my father would send me to get his hands dirty?" A bitter smile twisted his lips. "Tywin Lannister has subtler tools than his own son for wet work."
Despite every fiber of his being that wanted to refuse, to throw the Kingslayer out of his tower, Ned couldn't deny the logic in Jaime's words. Tywin wouldn't send his golden son for an assassination. The old lion had better pieces for that particular game.
"Then what do you want?" Ned asked flatly. "If not violence, what brings the Kingslayer to the Tower of the Hand at this hour?"
"I want to talk with the boy." Jaime's voice held an edge of urgency now. "With Jon. It's important. Urgent, even."
"Why?" Ned demanded. "Why would I let my blood speak with you? With the Kingslayer?" He spoke the name louder than usual.
Jaime's face showed annoyance, green fire in lamplight. Through gritted teeth, he said, "I only want to help him. Help you."
"Help?" Ned's voice dripped with skepticism, every word laced with disbelief. "Help from the Kingslayer? Forgive me if I don't believe that Lannisters help anyone but themselves."
Jaime went very still. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper, so quiet Ned had to strain to hear it. "I know it."
Three simple words.
Ned felt his entire body go rigid.
"What do you know?" Ned asked slowly. His hand tightened on the dagger at his belt. "What do you know exactly?"
Jaime met his eyes directly, unflinching. For the first time since entering the chamber, the usual Lannister arrogance was gone from his face, replaced by something that looked almost like... resolve. Purpose.
"I know Jon is not your son," Jaime said clearly, very quietly. "He is the son of Rhaegar and—"
Ned moved.
The dagger was in Ned's hand before conscious thought could catch up with instinct. He lunged forward, the blade aimed not to kill but to silence, to stop those words before they could fully form.
But Jaime Lannister was no ordinary knight.
Jaime pulled back, his hand already moving to his sword. Steel rang as he drew the blade free of its scabbard.
"I'm not here to fight!" Jaime said urgently, raising his free hand in a placating gesture even as his sword came up in a defensive guard. "Stark, I'm not here to fight!"
The door crashed open.
Jory and Harwin burst into the chamber, having heard the distinctive ring of steel being drawn. Both had their swords out. They took in the scene in an instant—their lord with a knife, the Kingslayer with his blade drawn, and the two pointed their swords at Jaime from behind.
"Put the sword down, Kingslayer," Jory ordered.
Then the door to Jon's bedchamber opened.
Jon appeared in the doorway, leaning heavily on wooden crutches, Ghost at his side. His face was pale from the exertion of standing, of crossing the room to investigate the sounds of conflict, but his purple eyes were clear and determined.
The great direwolf padded forward, placing himself between Jon and the armed men, red eyes fixed on Jaime with wary suspicion.
"I will hear what Ser Jaime has to say."
Ned looked at his nephew, he wanted to tell him to go back inside, that this did not involve him, but there was no point. The Kingslayer knew the truth, and Ned knew his hands were tied now; he could not kill the Kingslayer here, and he could not send him away without hearing him.
"Jory. Harwin." Ned said with his Lord's voice. "Sheathe your swords. Wait outside."
"My lord—" Jory began.
"Outside. Now."
They obeyed. They sheathed their blades slowly, reluctantly, casting wary looks at Jaime as they backed toward the door.
Now there were four in the chamber: Ned, Jaime, Jon, and Ghost.
Jon moved slowly across the room, each step clearly costing him pain. The crutches made soft sounds on the stone floor. Ghost moved with him, staying close, ready to defend his human at a moment's notice. Jon didn't falter, didn't hesitate, even though sweat had begun to bead on his forehead from the effort. He came to stand facing Jaime, purple eyes studying the Kingslayer.
"What do you want at such a late hour, Ser Jaime?" Jon asked calmly.
Jaime looked at Jon for a long moment, then slowly, he sheathed his sword. He made a show of it, letting the blade slide back into its scabbard with a quiet rasp of steel on leather. His hands moved away from the weapon, empty, unthreatening.
Ned sheathed his dagger as well, though he didn't take his eyes off the Kingslayer. Didn't trust him. Would never trust him.
"Sit," Jon said, gesturing toward the chairs around the table with one crutch. "Whatever this is about, we might as well be comfortable."
Jaime moved to take a seat near the table. Jon lowered himself carefully into another chair, and leaned his crutches against the wall within easy reach. Ghost settled at Jon's feet, massive head resting on his paws, red eyes never leaving Jaime. Ned remained standing for a moment longer, then reluctantly took his own seat.
Jaime looked at Jon for a long while, saying nothing. His green eyes traced the boy's features: the high cheekbones, the sharp jaw, the dark hair that fell across his forehead. But especially the eyes. Those impossible, unmistakable purple eyes that marked Valyrian blood as clearly as a banner.
Then Jaime chuckled. He shook his head slowly, almost in disbelief. "You look like him," he said, almost to himself. "Gods, how did I not see it sooner?"
"See what?" Jon asked, frustration clear in his voice. He glanced between Jaime and his father. "Look like whom?"
Jaime opened his mouth to answer...
"Walls have ears," Ned said quietly. Especially here, in the Red Keep, where Varys's little birds listened in every shadow, where every whispered word could mean death.
Jaime nodded, understanding. He turned back to Jon. "When will he know?" he asked carefully, not specifying what Jon would know.
When will Jon learn the truth of his parentage?
Ned opened his mouth, the old deflections already forming on his lips. Later. When it's safe. When we're far from King's Landing. The same answers he'd given for sixteen years, the same wall of silence he'd built between Jon and the truth.
But Jon cut him off before the words could form. "I'm tired," Jon said sharply, "of people talking like this around me. Speaking in riddles and half-truths. Treating me like a child who can't handle reality."
He turned to Jaime, purple eyes intense. "You seemed like you wanted to tell me the truth. Unlike others who dance around it."
It was clear. Will you tell me?
"Jon, you should wait—" Ned started, the same old refrain.
"There is no point in hiding Lord Stark. I know the truth and I will tell him, so I will you a choice, you tell him, or me." Jaime said before Ned could say the same things.
Ned glared at the Kingslayer, but he knew he was cornered; he could not stop the Kingslayer from telling the truth, and perhaps Jon had waited long enough. "The Little Birds might hear us, they might hear everything."
Jaime raised a hand. "I have a suggestion," he said. "If you want to tell the boy there's a place we can speak freely. Without fear of listeners."
Ned's eyes narrowed. "Where?"
"The Godswood of King's Landing." Jaime leaned forward slightly. "It's the only place in the Red Keep that's truly safe from Varys's little birds. The eunuch's spies are everywhere, but not there."
"Why not there?" Jon asked.
"No one really goes there anymore. There isn't a real weirwood tree there anymore. King Baelor the Blessed cut it down generations ago." Jaime explained. "But because of that, Varys's informants avoid it. There's nothing to hear in an empty garden. Too open, too exposed. Ironically, that makes it the most private place in the entire castle."
"Why would I believe you?" Ned asked suspiciously. "This could be a trap. A way to catch us admitting treason."
Jaime's patience was clearly wearing thin. Annoyance flashed across his face, though he kept his voice level. "Think, Stark. I already know the truth. If I wanted to harm you, one word to King Robert would be enough. It would be Robert standing at that door with hundreds of soldiers, not me alone."
He leaned forward, his green eyes hard. "I could have gone to Robert the moment I realized. The fat pig with antlers would have killed you all. Your entire house would be ended. But I haven't done that. Doesn't that tell you something?"
Ned looked like he was struggling with the decision, every instinct screaming not to trust the Kingslayer, but unable to deny the logic of his words. If the Kingslayer wanted them dead, there were easier, more certain ways to accomplish it.
Jon watched his father, waiting.
Finally, Ned decided. "Very well," he said, the words clearly costing him. "Jon and I will take a walk to the Godswood. I will tell him the truth there. No more delays."
He fixed Jaime with a hard stare. "But you will come too. Without any weapons. That's not negotiable."
"I'll do that," Jaime said, looking at Jon. "If that's what you order me."
Jon met Jaime's eyes steadily.
"I want the weapons left here," Jon said firmly.
Jaime nodded and stood. He pulled the sheathed sword from his belt and laid it on the table. Then he removed the dagger from his hip, placing it beside the sword. Both weapons lay in plain sight where Ned could see them.
"Satisfied?" Jaime asked.
Ned gave a curt nod and stood from his chair. Jon rose as well, reaching for his crutches. The movement was difficult, clearly painful, but Jon didn't falter. Ghost rose with him, positioning himself at Jon's side to help support him.
The three men moved toward the door, Ghost padding alongside Jon.
Whatever happened in the Godswood tonight would change everything.
?????
The chamber sat empty and silent. The candles Jon had lit hours before had burned down to stubs, their flames guttering and weak. Ghost was gone—had followed Jon and the others. The door to the main chamber was closed, and beyond it, no sounds penetrated the thick oak and iron.
Silence reigned.
Then, beside the wardrobe, a section of stone wall began to move.
The secret door opened smoothly into the chamber, revealing nothing but darkness beyond.
The Red Keep was full of such passages. Built by a King who was killed by its throne, some discovered and used by secret lovers of the prince and princess. And, of course, for spies. Always for spies.
A hooded figure slipped through the opening, moving quietly, like a shadow on the floor.
The figure walked into the room, making no sound.
The figure knelt beside the bed, gloved hands reaching underneath. There was a soft sound—fabric against stone—and then the wool-lined chest emerged from its hiding place. The same chest that Arya had brought to carry RedHeart down to the cellars. The same chest that had once held two dragon eggs.
Now it held only one.
The figure's hands lifted the lid. Slowly. Carefully. The weak candlelight fell into the chest's interior, illuminating what lay within.
A dragon egg.
It rested on its padding of wool, black as the deepest midnight, but shot through with lines of white that ran across its surface like veins of snow through obsidian.
It was larger than RedHeart's egg had been. The surface was smooth and cold to the touch, even through the gloves. The moonlight made the white lines move across the surface like living white snakes.
The figure stared at the egg for a long moment. No words were spoken. No sound was made. What were they thinking as they looked upon this impossible thing? Wonder at its beauty? Greed for its value? Fear of its power? Triumph at finding it? The shadow said nothing.
Then the gloved hands reached into the chest.
They lifted the egg carefully, cradling it against the figure's chest like the precious treasure it was. Even through the gloves, through the layers of cloth, the figure seemed to sense something about the egg. The Warmth.
With the egg secured, the figure carefully closed the chest's lid. Then the chest was slid back under the bed, positioned exactly where it had been before. The figure even took a moment to arrange the wool blanket that trailed from the bed, letting it drape naturally, covering any evidence of disturbance.
Rising, the figure turned slowly.
The egg was tucked inside the cloak, held secure with one arm while the other remained free for balance, for opening doors, for whatever might be needed. The figure moved like a shadow, gliding back toward the section of wall where the secret passage waited.
Then the figure stepped through the opening and into the darkness of the secret passage beyond.
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