Eddard Stark missed the North more than he cared to admit.
He missed Catelyn's gentle embrace, the laughter of his children echoing through Winterfell's stone halls, and the sound of Robb and Jon sparring in the yard. He even missed the cold—those crisp mornings and freezing nights that made the blood feel clean and alive.
But he could not retreat.
Not now. Not when the truth hid somewhere in this treacherous city.
"My Lord, the Hand's Tourney is underway," Jon said, standing beside his chair. "I know you dislike the event, but the Knights of the Vale have arrived. If you speak with them, I believe you can learn more."
Jon looked different now. The boyish softness had faded.
The short, thin scar Joffrey had carved into his face was still fresh, a centipede of pale skin that tugged faintly whenever he spoke. It added a new sharpness to him—something that didn't look handsome, but unmistakably grown.
Jon Snow was learning the cruelty of King's Landing faster than any child should.
"You speak very well, Jon," Eddard replied, warmed by the boy's clarity. "You've given me much to think about."
Those simple words from Jon made Eddard realize something unsettling: he had been relying too heavily on Littlefinger. Too willingly. Too blindly.
"My Lord," Jon said quietly, "that man cannot be trusted."
Bastards grew quickly.
Perhaps it was because their place in the world was never secure. A bastard needed to learn how to read a room, judge people, and predict danger long before other children understood what malice even was.
King's Landing was a maze of deceit.
And Littlefinger—who had clawed his way up this ladder of lies—was at home in that maze. That alone made him dangerous.
Jon knew Littlefinger's history. Always charming, always clever… but would such a man, who once had enmity with the Starks, suddenly offer honest help? Jon doubted it. So did Eddard, now that he forced himself to look clearly.
"The Vale… the Vale…" Eddard murmured.
Robert, in his own careless way, had helped him once more: by allowing the Hand's Tourney, he had lured the Knights of the Vale to the capital. The Vale was Eddard's second home. He and Robert had spent their youth at the Eyrie, tutored and protected by Lord Jon Arryn.
Lord Arryn had loved them both like sons.
He had even launched a rebellion for their sake.
And now Lord Arryn was dead.
And Eddard was failing to unravel the truth.
Perhaps the knights of the Vale carried pieces of the story that he had not yet heard.
He also thought of Robb for a moment. "I once wondered what Robb lacked," he thought. "Perhaps he lacks an understanding of power—of the games nobles play."
Jon, despite being a bastard, possessed a keen sense of caution.
Robb, raised as Winterfell's heir, had never tasted hardship, never served as a ward, never been forced to observe others from the shadows.
Jon had grown sharp because the world had forced him to.
Robb had not.
"When this war is won," Eddard promised himself, "I will teach Robb better."
"You've done well, Jon," Eddard said aloud. "There are many things I must rely on you for. Act cautiously. King's Landing is full of spies. This is not Winterfell."
"I understand, my Lord," Jon said without hesitation.
"What do you think we lack most?" Eddard asked.
Jon did not need to think long.
"A retreat, my Lord."
Eddard stared at him.
"A retreat?" he repeated.
"Yes. We have only a hundred guards. Even if we recruit mercenaries, at most we can reach two hundred. What can two hundred men do in a city like this?"
Eddard's breath quieted.
He had never considered retreat.
He came to King's Landing believing he could uncover the truth and restore order. He believed he could trust the King. He believed honor was enough.
"My Lord," Jon said softly, "the Red Keep is filled with spies. The King favors the Lannisters too much. The Gold Cloaks watch us. I tremble every time I pass them."
For a moment, Eddard felt something he hated—fear.
King's Landing held half a million souls. With only a few hundred guards, what change could he truly force?
"You may go, Jon," Eddard finally said. "I need time to think. I also have a new task for you."
Jon was to go speak with the monks of the Vale—any who had tended to or witnessed Lord Arryn's final days. It was a long shot. But any clue mattered.
After Jon left, Eddard sat in silence for a long time.
Could he trust Varys?
No.
Could he trust Littlefinger?
Certainly not.
Catelyn believed in old friendships far too much. But Eddard could not afford such faith.
"I am a Stark," he reminded himself. "The pack looks to me. I must not fail."
He had to rethink his path entirely—retrace Arryn's final movements, examine every clue, and approach the Knights of the Vale for answers. Lysa's story. Littlefinger's story. The whole truth.
---
The Small Council Convenes
The Small Council met as usual, though today Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch, joined them.
As always, Robert did not attend, leaving Eddard to preside.
"Can I trust any of them?" Eddard wondered.
The decrepit Maester Pycelle,
the elegant but sly Lord Renly,
the perfumed Varys,
and Littlefinger—whose smile was a weapon.
Not one of them felt safe.
Janos Slynt puffed like an angry bullfrog, his bald head reddening.
"My Lords," he began, "all these troubles are caused by the Hand's Tourney!"
"The King's Tourney," Eddard corrected sharply. "The Hand has no interest in it whatsoever."
But interest or not, he had no choice. The Tourney was happening.
Slynt continued:
"For every knight who comes, two free riders follow. Then craftsmen, soldiers, merchants, prostitutes… and thieves too many to count. The heat has half the city maddened, and now we have chaos every night—drownings, brawls, rapes, fires, robberies. Yesterday a woman's head was found floating in the pool of the Great Sept."
Eddard clenched his jaw.
Winterfell never faced such madness.
The North was harsh, but stable.
King's Landing was a boiling pot with no lid.
"How terrifying," Varys murmured.
Renly rolled his eyes. "If you can't keep order, Janos, perhaps we need a more capable commander."
Janos puffed up again. "Even Aegon the Conqueror couldn't control this without more men! I need reinforcements."
"How many?" Eddard asked.
"The more the better, my Lord."
"Hire a hundred new recruits. Fifty for you, fifty for my own guard. I need more men during the Tourney. Lord Baelish will handle the funding."
Littlefinger sighed theatrically. "Always me counting the coppers… but very well."
Eddard added, "Since you can raise hundreds of thousands for the Tourney, a few coppers for peacekeeping shouldn't be difficult."
Then he turned to Slynt.
"I will also assign thirty men from my personal guard temporarily. Use them wisely."
Slynt bowed deeply. "Thank you, my Lord Hand."
"And Janos—do not steal their pay. I won't have unrest caused by your greed."
"I would never, my Lord! I treat all my soldiers like kin!"
Eddard doubted that.
Once Slynt left, Eddard sighed.
"The sooner this farce ends, the sooner I will sleep in peace."
Maester Pycelle began his usual speech about the Tourney's benefits. Littlefinger chimed in about profits. Renly joked crudely about Stannis. The others laughed.
Eddard listened with increasing distance.
There was a wall between him and these men.
Finally, he rose. "Enough. This meeting is over."
---
Back in the Tower of the Hand
Eddard returned to his chambers and shed the suffocating silk garments of court. He pulled out the massive tome written by Old Maester Meryn:
"The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms."
It was dull beyond belief.
But Arryn had studied it intently before his death.
Which meant the answer must be inside.
He turned to House Lannister again.
Their golden history stretched back to Lann the Clever, the trickster of old who stole Casterly Rock. Eddard almost wished that legendary thief were here beside him—someone who could steal the truths buried in these dusty pages.
A knock broke his concentration.
Jory Cassel entered.
Eddard gave him orders to pick thirty guards for the City Watch and asked about a stable boy who had once served Arryn. Jory explained the boy spoke fondly of the late Lord Hand.
Eddard felt himself drawing closer—inch by inch—to the real story.
But the final threads remained tangled.
"Tell me everything clearly," Eddard said again.
Jory nodded. "I will, my Lord."
When the room was quiet once more, Eddard waited for Jon's return, hoping—praying—that the boy would bring back the hint of an answer.
Because in this city of lies, any small truth was a weapon.
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