Game of Thrones: Storm of the Bucks
The mountain road was steep, narrow, and treacherous.
Cold winds howled endlessly through the peaks, carrying loose stones that rattled and fell without warning. Each step felt like a gamble with death. To make matters worse, the ever-present threat of the Hill Tribesmen hung over the journey like a shadow—those savage clans who struck without warning and vanished just as quickly.
Catelyn Stark rode in grim silence, her cloak pulled tight against the biting cold. Every mile of the journey filled her with dread, yet she had no choice but to press on.
This was for her House.
No matter how dangerous or exhausting the road became, she could not turn back.
"Damn the Hill Tribesmen," she thought bitterly.
If not for their interference, the Imp—Tyrion Lannister—would already be in her custody. They would have traveled together toward the Eyrie under guard, rather than creeping through the mountains like hunted animals.
Instead, blood had been spilled.
Lives had been lost.
It was only when she saw the banner fluttering in the mountain wind—a blue field bearing a white crescent moon and a soaring falcon—that Catelyn finally allowed herself to breathe.
House Arryn.
Relief washed over her like warmth after a long winter night.
"My lady," said Ser Donnel Waynwood as he approached her, his voice respectful but firm. "You should have sent word ahead. We could have dispatched an escort. These mountain paths are no longer safe, and you travel with too few men."
Catelyn nodded stiffly.
"The Hill Tribesmen attacked us twice," Ser Donnel continued grimly. "We lost three men in the first encounter alone."
His words struck painfully close to home.
She remembered their faces.
Men who had sworn loyalty to House Stark.
Men who had died because she had underestimated the dangers of the Vale.
"Since Lord Jon's death," Ser Donnel went on, "the Hill Tribesmen have grown bolder by the day. Lawless and arrogant."
He gestured ahead, toward the massive stone structure looming in the distance.
"If it were my decision, I would take a hundred mounted knights and scour these mountains clean. But your sister will not allow it."
Catelyn's lips tightened.
"Lady Lysa refuses to spare even a single knight," Ser Donnel said with clear frustration. "She wouldn't even allow our men to attend the Hand of the King's tourney. Every sword must remain here, guarding the Vale."
"Guarding it from what?" he added bitterly. "No one can say."
Catelyn sighed quietly.
Had she been too rash?
Several men had already paid with their lives for this journey, and she had yet to reveal her true purpose. If she were to announce openly that she had seized a Lannister—one of the most powerful Houses in the realm—these knights might not be so calm.
Or so willing to help.
The council chamber in King's Landing was a place of splendor, but Eddard Stark felt no comfort within its walls.
Valyrian sphinxes guarded the entrance, their black marble bodies polished to a mirror sheen. Garnet eyes glowed coldly in their carved faces. The floor was covered with rich Myrish carpets rather than simple rushes, and the walls were draped with tapestries from Norvos, Qohor, and Lys, each depicting scenes of war, conquest, and glory.
Yet despite all this grandeur, the air felt heavy.
Oppressive.
It was rare for King Robert Baratheon himself to attend a meeting of the Small Council, but today he sat at the head of the table, his massive form slouched, a cup of wine already half empty.
Eddard Stark felt no joy at his presence.
"My lord," Eddard said sharply, turning his cold gaze upon Varys, "is this truly your brilliant idea?"
The eunuch spread his hands placatingly, the cloying scent of perfume drifting across the table.
"I do not act for the sake of one life, Lord Hand," Varys replied smoothly, "but for thousands."
"Blame me if you wish," he continued softly. "So long as the realm survives. I am not blind enough to miss the shadow of the axe hanging above my own neck."
"There is no immediate danger," Eddard insisted. "This is an old matter, rooted in the past. What might happen is still unknown."
"Unknown?" Varys echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. "My lord, would I fabricate falsehoods to mislead His Grace and the council?"
Eddard's eyes hardened.
Varys's power in King's Landing rested entirely upon secrets and whispers. He alone claimed knowledge of the Targaryen siblings—and now, of the king's own bastard as well.
"My lord," Eddard said evenly, "your information comes from traitors thousands of leagues away. It could be mistaken. Or lies."
"My little birds do not lie to me," Varys said with a thin smile. "The princess's pregnancy is no mistake."
"That may be so," Eddard replied, "but even then, we have nothing to fear if she miscarries. Nothing to fear if the child is a girl. Nothing to fear if the child dies in infancy."
"But what if it is a son?" King Robert growled. "What if he lives?"
Varys leaned forward.
"And you forget something else, Lord Hand. Daenerys's husband is no less ambitious. The fires of the east will one day reach the west."
"The fleet of the Triarchy now controls Myr, Tyrosh, and the Stepstones. Warships are not built for decoration. We have seen this before—during the Dance of the Dragons, the Three Daughters blocked the Gullet."
Robert drank deeply from his cup.
"Where is Stannis?" the king muttered bitterly. "He should have returned by now. The Royal Fleet needs him."
Eddard frowned.
Stannis likely had no desire to return.
"If we act rashly," Eddard warned, "we may provoke the Free Cities. They will count their ships and soldiers—and seek revenge."
"Revenge?" Robert shouted. "He is a traitor!"
"Your Grace," Eddard said quietly, "he is still your blood. Both the old gods and the new despise kinslaying. Perhaps envoys would be wiser than blades."
"That," Varys said gently, "is why we need you, Lord Stark."
"Give the order."
Eddard shook his head slowly.
"I cannot."
"If it were open war—armies meeting on the battlefield—I would not hesitate. But this…" He sighed deeply. "This is murder."
"Gods above!" Robert slammed his fist on the table. "You always were stubborn, Stark! Are you all mute? Will no one reason with this frozen fool?"
Renly Baratheon shrugged casually.
"To me, this is simple. Viserys and his sister should have been slain long ago. His Grace only spared them because he once believed Jon Arryn's counsel."
"Mercy is never a mistake," Eddard replied firmly.
He spoke of Ser Barristan Selmy—wounded, surrounded, spared on the Trident despite having slain many loyal men. The king himself had ordered his wounds treated.
Yet Robert's face only darkened.
"We will kill every last Targaryen!" he roared.
"Your Grace," Eddard said coldly, "I remember when even Rhaegar Targaryen did not frighten you. Has your courage truly grown so small that the shadow of an unborn child makes you tremble?"
Silence fell.
Then voices rose—one after another.
All agreed with the king.
All except Eddard Stark and Ser Barristan Selmy.
"It is glorious to face an enemy in battle," Ser Barristan said at last, his pale blue eyes lifting. "But there is no honor in striking before a child is born. Forgive me, Your Grace—I must stand with Lord Eddard."
The Grand Maester disagreed.
"If the death of one woman spares thousands," he said solemnly, "would that not be mercy?"
Robert turned back to Eddard.
"You see? That is the truth of it."
Poison was proposed.
The tears of Lys.
All eyes turned to Eddard.
Slowly, he rose to his feet.
"Robert," he said quietly, "I will not be party to murder. Do as you will—but I will not set my seal to this."
Robert stood as well, red-faced and shaking with rage.
"Then I will find a new Hand!"
Eddard unfastened the silver clasp at his cloak and laid the badge of office upon the table.
"Then I pray you find someone fit for the role."
"Get out!" Robert bellowed.
Eddard bowed once—and left.
The door closed behind him.
And for the first time since coming south, Eddard Stark truly felt alone.
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