Chapter 13
Fresh snow was soft under her paws as she sharpened her claws on the trunk of an old oak tree. The moon hung high in the sky as the light snow fell quietly, covering the world in a pure white blanket.
A man-thing would have heard nothing in the wolf’s wood, but Shade could. A shadow-cat’s ears were even more sensitive than a not-cat’s, their eyes were much sharper too. To the unaware, the forest was deathly silent, but to Shade, it was teeming with life even in the hour of the wolf.
In the higher branches above her, mice and squirrels busied themselves, finding food for their offspring, trying to avoid the watchful eyes of predators in the night. Off in the distance, a snow owl took flight, no doubt trying to find food for it’s own offspring. It was the way of the world. Death would feed life, that would eventually die and feed more life.
Shade stretched as she settled on her branch, having finished sharpening her claws. She settled down to oversee what prey would be unlucky enough to happen upon her territory. Solitary hunting, lying in wait for her prey was by far her preferred option.
The not-cat’s always wanted to hunt together, howling at the moon, letting all prey within miles know where they were. A stealthy hunt was much more likely to end with food, Shade knew, her mother had taught her that in the den with the other kittens.
Then her man-thing had been given to her.
He was…acceptable as man-things went. He always seemed happy to scratch at the places on her fur that were more difficult to reach. His den was certainly the warmest place in the world, she had definitely made the right decision to whelp her kittens there, even if it had made her man-thing and his man-thing mates angry.
They had never seemed to mind when they disturbed Shade’s sleep with the sounds of their near-constant mating. Multiple times Shade had knocked things off from high places to show her man-things how she disapproved of them.
Yet in spite all the drawbacks of her man-things, Shade was never happier than when they all snuggled together in a pile.
A sound.
A lone sharp-bone-head walked beneath where Shade was perched among the branches. It was larger than her by a sizeable amount, and it’s head-bones were dangerous. It could skewer she if she wasn’t careful. Spreading her paws wide, Shade rose from her position, making ready to stalk her prey.
A wrong move could prove fatal, so she took her time, creeping down the tree onto the snowy ground. Stealth would be needed to take this prey by surprise. Shade silently made her way closer to the sharp bone head, making sure to stay out of sight and downwind of her prey.
As Shade edged closer, the smell of another animal wafted in on the wind. A young small female-bone-head. She eyed the sharp bone head as it went about it’s business, weighing the possibilities. The potential cost against potential reward. After a few moments of contemplation, she decided the small female-bone-head was the better option.
It was only a few hundred feet away, treading lightly along a riverbank. Shade crossed the distance quickly. This prey didn’t require anywhere near as much care as the other.
It was dead before it even knew Shade was there.
Steam rose into the air from the small female-bone-head’s wounds as the snow turned pink around it. Shade began to tear into the flesh of her kill, the scent of blood filling her nose.
A sound behind Shade sent her spinning round to face the potential danger. She saw two Ungor, one holding a makeshift spiked club, the other, a primitive spear. They were eyeing the small female-bone-head’s corpse with hungry eyes.
The beastmen had likely been hunting it before Shade had made her kill. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t going to give up her meal.
Shade placed a paw on the corpse and growled deeply, bearing her sharp teeth to the Ungor. They edged closer on cloven hooves, trying to encircle her.
Fast as lightning, Shade’s tensed muscles uncoiled as she launched herself into the air at the Ungor with a spear, deeming him to be the bigger threat. Long, razor sharp claws that could rend steel plate tore into the unprotected flesh of the Ungor as her jaw clamped shut around his throat and tore it out.
Then Shade went for the other, a mistimed jump lead to the Ungor’s club catching her in the side as she attacked, causing her to leap back and hiss in anger. Ungor couldn’t see much better than man-things in the dark and the were pretty stupid. So she decided to use a different tactic.
Shade retreated into the dark night, letting the Ungor go to the small female-bone-head’s corpse, turning it’s back. Shade made quick work of it. Ungor really were too stupid to live. She sat in the snow licked her fur, where the spiked club had nicked her side, drawing blood.
Dawn’s first light was beginning to reach out across the sky when Shade decided to wander back to her stone den. Ned felt his spirit leaving the Shadowcat, being called back to his body, over a thousand miles to the south.
Feeling his spirit return to his body, Ned stirred awake to the heavy smell of perfume and incense, wrapped in light bedsheets of fine silk. Opening his bleary eyes, Ned saw dawn’s orange-golden light streaming through the curtains of the large open window. He felt neither of his partners from the night before on either side of him. Looking down the bed, Ned saw they had decided to wake him up with a treat.
Kneeling by his legs, were Chataya, a Summer Islander whore and the madame of the brothel they were in, and her daughter by a Dornish man, Alayaya. Both dark skinned women were heart-stoppingly beautiful, with ample curves, long dark hair and flawless skin.
Ned had taken them both multiple times throughout the night. At the moment, they were both sucking his cock eagerly, lavishing his shaft with their tongues. The contrast of his pale cock against their, very dark skin made his cock throb with desire. Luckily, Chataya and Alayaya were the two most skilful whores he’d ever had the pleasure of bedding, so they were more than capable of satisfying him.
Ned didn’t come to Chataya’s just to sate his lusts however, he needed information. He needed to have eyes and hears throughout the city, Chataya was someone whom he trusted to oversee this. They had first met a long time ago, when he first came to King’s Landing.
Though Chataya was a whore, she was whip-smart and Ned trusted her more than he trusted the entire small council. Chataya would be his spymaster, bringing him information from the customers of the various brothels in King’s Landing. Men loved to boast of their deeds to the whores they’d bought and payed for, especially when they’d had many glasses of wine.
Ned thought of the first Master of Whispers, who started as a whore to Prince Daemon, but rose high in the court of King’s Landing. He sent a silent thanks to old Druid Yarmund, who’d made sure Ned knew the histories of the Seven Kingdoms before he went to the Vale.
“Good morning, lover.” Chataya’s melodic tone drew Ned from his thoughts. Turning his head to the voice, Ned saw Chataya smiling up at him, one of her hands around the base of his cock as Alayaya massaged his tip with her tongue.
“I see you two woke up early.” Ned half-grinned down at the two beautiful Summer Islanders, placing his hands behind his head.
“At Chataya’s, we pride ourselves on providing the best service to our patrons.” Alayaya giggled between laying kisses along his cock.
“That includes waking up our most impressive client by sucking his most impressive cock.” Chataya added, before sealing her lips around Ned’s cock-head and sucking hard, expertly swirling her tongue around it as Alayaya began to suck on his balls.
Ned groaned in response to the sensations, closing his eyes as he lay back to bask in the early morning, with two beautiful women pleasuring him. Feeling both their tongues on his cock-head, Ned opened his eyes and saw something that nearly made him finish right there. Chataya and Alayaya were sloppily kissing around his cock-head, swapping it between their mouths as their hands pumped his shaft. The mother and daughter’s tongues danced together for a time before pulling apart.
“I believe he’s ready to move on now.” Chataya grinned like a cheshire cat as she got to her knees on the bed.
“I’ll let you have the first go at him, mother.” Alayaya giggled as she left her position at Ned’s hip. “After last night, you’ll want a second chance.” Chataya gave her an angry look. As Ned had been fucking both women the night before, Chataya had been the first to pass out, much to the amusement of her daughter.
“I wasn’t properly prepared,” Chataya almost seemed annoyed. “Now I am.” She slung her thick, dark thighs over Ned’s hips, positioning his cock at the lips of her cunt, then slammed her hips down. “Gods!” She uttered something between a moan and a shout. “Sooo big!”
Feeling the tight, smooth, hot embrace of the cunt of the best whore in King’s Landing brought a low groan from Ned’s throat, as his hands snaked up to Chataya’s hips, taking hold. Every inch of his cock was buried inside Chataya, who trembled pleasantly above him. He could feel the muscles in her cunt squeeze him, trying to draw him deeper inside her, to fill her with his child.
“Fuck.” Ned gritted his teeth.
“You’re all the way inside me…” Chataya moaned. “Gods… So deep…”
“It’s such a beautiful cock.” Alayaya huskily whispered to Chataya as she came up behind her and groped Chataya’s exceedingly large breasts. “Cocks like that were made to be shared.”
Chataya’s eyes were closed as she began to move her hips, drawing his cock out a little, then easing it back in. She almost mewled when Ned pressed and inch deeper. He was content with the slow pace, most women needed to go slow when taking his cock. Alayaya pulled her mother into a deep kiss as she groped Chataya’s breasts, silencing her moans of pleasure as she writhed on Ned’s cock.
Noticing a golden glinting on the side table, Ned reached across and summoned his chain of office to his hand. Triss had been teaching him some limited telekinesis, she wanted him to be prepared for any eventuality in King’s Landing, so she had taken to teaching Ned more magic. Entirely coincidentally, Ned imagined, the magic Triss was teaching him could be applied in the bed chambers as well. Sometimes, Triss really wasn’t subtle
So far, Ned had not proven to be particularly proficient at any magic other than what had been given to him through the Trial of Winter. But, in the lives of all the great masters to walk Westeros, there was a time when they knew nothing too.
That thought gave Ned some comfort.
Holding his chain of golden hands, Ned placed it around Chataya’s neck as she rode him, the gold went well with her colouring. She looked a vision of beauty, wearing his golden chain. Deciding that Alayaya shouldn’t get all the fun, Ned reached up to grope Chataya’s massive, soft breasts, tweaking her coal-black nipples to hardness. Chataya began to shiver and moan even louder as Ned continued his ministrations on her breasts and in her cunt.
“Are you close, mother?” Alayaya asked as she wrapped her hand around the chain and tightened it around Chataya’s throat, squeezing hard.
“Yes!” Chataya gasped as Ned began to thrust harder up into her cunt. It only took three thrusts for Chataya to be brought to a screaming climax around Ned, bathing his lower regions in her essence. “Gods! FUCK!”
Ned watched as the mature whore quivered and shook as she rode him, feeling the tightness of her womanhood squeeze and massage his cock. Alayaya held her up as the aftershocks of her climax rippled through her soft curves.
“My turn now.” Alayaya giggled as she let go of Chataya, who flopped down on top of Ned, her large breasts cushioning her fall, somewhat.
“No.” Ned responded. “Your mother’s going to get her fill, then it’s your turn.”
“If you say so…” Alayaya pouted. “Then i’m at least going to get a good view.” She climbed over Ned’s legs and shuffled up the bed so she could lay down next to him. “Much better.” Alayaya smirked as she pressed her body to Ned’s side, he could feel the pinch of her emerald nipple piercing digging into his chest slightly. Not that he minded, as there was also a generous amount of tit flesh being pressed against him too.
“Now, Chataya…” Ned said, taking hold of her wide hips. “We did it your way first… Now we do it mine…” He lifted Chataya three quarters of the way off his cock, then slammed her down again, thrusting his hips up to meet her.
Then again, and again.
“AHHHHH!! FUCK!!! ARRGGHH!!! FUCK ME!!!!!” Chataya screamed as Ned pistoned her cunt with the force of a hundred men. Up and down she went, bouncing rapidly on Ned’s shaft, getting pummelled by his cock. Her face was buried into his chest, doing little to muffle her screams of pleasure.
They could no-doubt hear the cries of their madame in every corner of the brothel. Chataya was like a rag-doll in Ned’s hands, limp and boneless. Their lovemaking had sapped every once of strength from the woman, she was now completely at Ned’s mercy. Chataya’s face was buried into Ned’s chest, she didn’t even have the strength to hold herself up as Ned ravaged her.
“God’s… Look and you two…” Alayaya moaned into Ned’s ear, glancing down, he saw she was pleasuring herself as she watched them. “You look sooo beautiful together… Dark on light. This is where we belong. Fucking like wild animals. Take us back to the Red Keep with you…” She began to pinch her nipples. “We’ll be your maids… Your whores… You can fuck us as we clean your chambers…”
Ned took a had off Chataya’s hip, putting it into Alayaya’s hair, he pulled the whore into a fierce embrace as he ploughed her mother. They continued like this for some time, until Chataya’s wailing became too annoying.
“Make your mother be quiet.” Ned ordered Alayaya. To his surprise, she jumped right into action, taking Chataya’s gold chain in hand again, wrapping it tightly around her throat.
Then, Alayaya slapped her mother, hard. Again and again. Chataya’s cheeks were turning red under her daughter’s assault. The force of Alayaya’s blows almost made Ned want to stop her, but he decided against it, preferring to see what would happen.
“Be quiet, whore.” Alayaya growled, before kissing Chataya hungrily. Ned almost stopped thrusting at the display. To look at both women outside of the bedroom, one would have thought that Chataya was the dominant one… Apparently not.
None of them lasted much longer after that.
Chataya was brought to another mind-numbing climax, as Ned filled her with his seed. “Get pregnant, bitch.” Ned growled as he pumped his seed into the Summer Islander whore’s womb. Alayaya also brought herself to her end as she watched her mother and her lover together.
Chataya moaned wordlessly as Alayaya shifted her off Ned, near catatonic, she moaned even louder when Alayaya decided she wanted to taste Ned’s seed from her mother’s cunt. Ned watched as Alayaya feasted on her mother’s cunt, almost as if she were dying of thirst.
In spite of having likely just impregnating a woman, Ned’s cock was still achingly hard, something Alayaya did not fail to notice.
“Gods, I wish all of our clients were like you.” She moaned as she quickly mounted him. “You’ve got stamina for days.”
“You’ll have to make do with just me, i’m afraid.” Ned chuckled as he pinched Alayaya’s pierced nipple.
“I imagine I’ll survive.” Alayaya began to expertly gyrate her hips as she rode Ned. All he needed to do was lie back and enjoy the ride, fully sheathed inside Alayaya’s snug womanhood. His eyes rolled over Alayaya’s form. She was nearly as curvy as her mother, with wide hips and large breasts, capped with dark nipples. Though, she was also a little slimmer, no doubt from being much younger.
“She’s beautiful.” Chataya said, looking up at her daughter as she rested her head on Ned’s shoulder.
“Yes, she is.” Ned agreed.
“I’ve taught her everything know about the art of lovemaking.”
“It certainly shows.” Ned chuckled.
“There’s a reason she’s the most expensive whore in the brothel.” Chataya laughed. “You’re the only one who’s ever had the two of us.”
“I’m honoured.”
“Ohhh, the honour is ours, prince Stark.” Alayaya moaned. She placed her feet on either side of his hips, getting the leverage to lift herself up properly and drop back down on Ned’s cock. His eyes were drawn to the hypnotic swaying of Alayaya’s large breasts as they bounced up and down.
“I taught you to ride faster than that.” Chataya laughed, spanking Alayaya’s bouncing behind as it clapped against Ned’s thighs.
“Yes, mother…” Alayaya moaned, quickening her pace even more. Wet slaps of skin on skin echoed throughout the room. Ned almost laughed at how similar the sensations were to when Chataya was riding his cock. Like mother, like daughter…
The pressure building in Ned’s balls became too much for him. Taking Alayaya’s hips in hand, like he’d taken her mother’s, he started hammering into Alayaya’s cunt. The loss of control sent Alayaya howling, as Chataya stroked her hands along Alayaya’s body.
Eventually, they two came to their mutual satisfaction. Ned chuckled to himself, as he had likely just impregnated mother and daughter, both. When the quivering Alayaya finally flopped off Ned’s cock, Chataya was seemingly amazed to see that it was still hard.
Ned continued to ravage the pair of whores for the next two hours. Starting by fucking them as they leaned out of the massive window to the room. They were in the highest room of the brothel, but only four floors up, so the people on the street could still see the two beautiful women as Ned ploughed them to screaming climaxes.
An audience quickly formed outside of the brothel, one that cheered loudly for the whores to get fucked. Both of them certainly seemed to enjoy having an audience for their ravaging. For a moment, Ned was half tempted to throw them to the street and let the randy crowd her their way with them, but decided against it. Chataya and Alayaya were his whores. Eventually, Ned took them away from the window and back into the bed.
Ned was hammering into the pair of whores. Chataya, was on her back on the bedsheets, with Alayaya on top of her, giving her very sloppy kisses. Ned was ploughing both women at an obscene rate as they both moaned and screamed into each others mouths.
Their position allowed Ned to quickly alternate which cunt he was in. Two thrusts into Chataya, three into Alayaya, another three into Chataya again, then back to Alayaya. After a while, Ned finished his last time on both their faces. His white seed contrasting beautifully against their dark skin.
“I expect you to give me regular information reports.” Ned told Chataya as he redressed. “I want to know everything that’s happening in the city.”
“As you command, my Prince.” The brothel madame said as she got to shaky feet and padded over to a pitcher of water, that she drank greedily. “Though there are some requests I would make of you…”
“What is it you want?” Ned knew few people ever did something for nothing, he would just have to see what price Chataya would ask of him.
“Better protection for my girls.” She said. “Multiple times my girls have been attacked in the streets, by men who want for free what they’d rather not pay for in my establishment.”
It was certainly something Ned was willing, if not happy to do. Even if he hated King’s Landing, he did not wish ill on the innocent citizens who had the misfortune to live there.
“I’ll talk to the City Watch and have the patrols doubled in the Street of Silk.” He said, this seemed to satisfy the madame. “I will also give you a loan to pay for more protection.” He added.
“You’re very generous, my Prince.” Chataya smiled sensually at him, making use of the fact that she was still naked. “I feel I must thank you.”
“You ‘thanked me’ all through the night and again this morning.” They both laughed. After they were done conversing, Ned left the brothel and rode back to the Red Keep.
He already had a plan for what he was to do that day.
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“Lord Arryn’s death was a great sadness for all of us, my prince,” Grand Maester Pycelle said. “I would be more than happy to tell you what I can of his passing. Do be seated. Would you care for refreshments? A cup of iced milk, sweetened with honey? I find it most refreshing in this heat.”
There was no denying the heat; Ned could feel the silk tunic clinging to his chest. It was times like this when Ned was thankful for his ice magic, he could make as much ice as he would ever need. Thick, moist air covered the city like a damp woolen blanket, and the riverside had grown unruly as the poor fled their hot, airless warrens to jostle for sleeping places near the water, where the only breath of wind was to be found.
“That would be most kind,” Ned said, seating himself.
Pycelle lifted a tiny silver bell with thumb and forenger and tinkled it gently. A young serving girl hurried into the solar. “Iced milk for the King’s Hand and myself, if you would be so kind, child. Well sweetened.”
As the girl went to fetch their drinks, the Grand Maester knotted his fingers together and rested his hands on his stomach. “The smallfolk say that the last year of summer is always the hottest. It is not so, yet ofttimes it feels that way, does it not? On days like this, I envy you northerners your summer snows.” The heavy jeweled chain around the old man’s neck chinked softly as he shifted in his seat. “To be sure, King Maekar’s summer was hotter than this one, and near as long. There were fools, even in the Citadel, who took that to mean that the Great Summer had come at last, the summer that never ends, but in the seventh year it broke suddenly, and… uh-ah, and here is our milk.” The serving girl placed the tray between them, and Pycelle gave her a smile. “Sweet child.” He lifted a cup, tasted, nodded. “Thank you. You may go.” When the girl had taken her leave, Pycelle peered at Ned through pale, rheumy eyes. “Now where were we? Oh, yes. You asked about Lord Arryn...”
“I did.” Ned sipped politely at the iced milk. It was pleasantly cold, but oversweet to his taste.
“If truth be told, the Hand had not seemed quite himself for some time,” Pycelle said. “We had sat together on council many a year, he and I, and the signs were there to read, but I put them down to the great burdens he had borne so faithfully for so long. Those broad shoulders were weighed down by all the cares of the realm, and more besides. His son was ever sickly, and his lady wife so anxious that she would scarcely let the boy out of her sight. It was enough to weary even a strong man, and the Lord Jon was not young. Small wonder if he seemed melancholy and tired. Or so I thought at the time. Yet now I am less certain.” He gave a ponderous shake of his head.
“What can you tell me of his final illness?”
The Grand Maester spread his hands in a gesture of helpless sorrow. “He came to me one day asking after a certain book, as hale and healthy as ever, though it did seem to me that something was troubling him deeply. The next morning he was twisted over in pain, too sick to rise from bed. When Lord Jon continued to weaken, I went to him myself, but the gods did not grant me the power to save him.”
“Did Lord Arryn say anything to you during his last hours?”
Pycelle wrinkled his brow. “In the last stage of his fever, the Hand called out the name Robert several times, but whether he was asking for his son or for the king I could not say. Lady Lysa would not permit the boy to enter the sickroom, for fear that he too might be taken ill. The king did come, and he sat beside the bed for hours, talking and joking of times long past in hopes of raising Lord Jon’s spirits. His love was fierce to see.” That had always been true. Though Robert could be difficult at the best of times, Ned could never deny that Robert loved his friends fiercely.
“Was there nothing else? No final words?”
“When I saw that all hope had fled, I gave the Hand the milk of the poppy, so he should not suer. Just before he closed his eyes for the last time, he whispered something to the king and his lady wife, a blessing for his son. The seed is strong, he said. At the end, his speech was too slurred to comprehend. Death did not come until the next morning, but Lord Jon was at peace after that. He never spoke again.”
Ned took another swallow of milk, trying not to gag on the sweetness of it. “Did it seem to you that there was anything unnatural about Lord Arryn’s death?”
“Unnatural?” The aged maester’s voice was thin as a whisper. “No, I could not say so. Sad, for a certainty. Yet in its own way, death is the most natural thing of all, Prince Eddard. Though I must say, Lord Arryn was not a young man, but he was still younger than me by a number of years and Lord Baelish younger still.” Ned shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “To think that those men died while an old man like me gets to keep on living…”
“Lord Baelish’s death was a tragedy.” Ned lied. Perkins had done his job well. They had found ‘Littlefinger’s’ body a day after he was reported missing. There were none at court who morned for him and thankfully, it didn’t seem like any knew Ned was the last person he had spoken to. So far, it had seemed no one suspected him. “Money lending is a grubby business, perhaps he ran afoul of someone he shouldn’t have.”
“That’s the most likely answer.” Pycelle said, ponderously. “It is unlikely we will ever know the villain that did it.”
“This illness that took Lord Arryn,” said Ned, moving the conversation back to where he wanted. “Had you ever seen its like before, in other men?”
“Near forty years I have been Grand Maester of the Seven Kingdoms,” Pycelle replied. “I have seen more of illness than I care to remember, my prince. I will tell you this: Every case is different, and every case is alike. Lord Jon’s death was no stranger than any other.”
“So you’re quite certain that Jon Arryn died of a sudden illness?”
“I am,” Pycelle replied gravely. “If not illness, what else could it be?”
“Poison,” Ned suggested quietly.
Pycelle’s sleepy eyes flicked open. The aged maester shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “A disturbing thought. What you suggest is possible, my lord, yet I do not think it likely. The Hand was loved by all. Who would dare to murder such a noble lord?”
“I have heard it said that poison is a woman’s weapon.”
Pycelle stroked his beard thoughtfully. “It is said. Women, cravens ... and eunuchs.” He cleared his throat. Above them, ravens cawed loudly in the rookery. “The Lord Varys was born a slave in Lys, did you know? Put not your trust in spiders, my lord.”
That was scarcely anything Ned needed to be told; there was something about Varys that made his flesh crawl. “I will remember that, Maester. And I thank you for your help. I have taken enough of your time.” He stood.
Grand Maester Pycelle pushed himself up from his chair slowly and escorted Ned to the door. “No trouble at all, my Prince. It is a great honour to help.”
“One thing,” Ned told him. “I should be curious to examine the book that you lent Jon the day before he fell ill.”
“I fear you would find it of little interest,” Pycelle said. “A ponderous tome by Grand Maester Malleon on the lineages of the great houses.”
“Still, I should like to see it.”
The old man opened the door. “As you wish. I have it here somewhere. When I find it, I shall have it sent to your chambers straightaway.”
“You have been most courteous,” Ned told him.
Pycelle bowed his head. “Come to me as often as you like, Lord Eddard. I am here to serve.”
Yes, Ned thought as the door swung shut, but whom?
On the way back to his chambers, Ned heard the sound wooden swords being smacked together. Folloing the sound, Ned came across Arya being taught by Syrio, a water dancer from Braavos. After having seen the blade of Uru Jon had gifted Arya, he had procured her an instructor fit to train her. Syrio came with high recommendation as the first sword to the Sealord of Braavos. Arthur had called Syrio one of the finest swordsmen he had ever seen, high praise coming from the Sword of the Morning.
The waterdancer had only asked one thing in payment: a Bravvosi sword of pure Uru, enchanted to fly to his hand when called upon. Dorkk had spent many nights perfecting the blade before Ned had given it to the waterdancer.
Ned was standing off to the side, watching as Arya and Syrio sparred. Back and forth they went, cutting high and low, blocking left and right. Ned’s trained eye could see Syrio was playing with Arya, allowing her to practice without fighting seriously. If the tales were true, Syrio would have great strength and speed, as the First Swords to the Sealord of Braavos were given enhancements to rival even the King’s Guard.
“He’s very quick, this Braavosi fella.” Cooper’s voice drew Ned from his thoughts, he turned to see him sitting by the open door.
“All’s quiet so far?” Ned asked the Chosen Man.
“Apart from the little princess telling me to kill her instructor when he accidentally caught her on the knuckle.” He laughed as he peeled an apple with a small knife.
“Tell me when she’s done.” Ned asked Cooper. “I’ll want to take her flying with Sansa later.” With that, Ned made his way to his chambers.
When he got there, he stripped off his sweat-stained silks and created a slab of ice for him to lie on. The cool embrace was certainly welcomed in the ghastly heat. Harper entered as he was still lying on the ice. “Ned,” he said, “Lord Varys wants to see you.”
“Escort him to my solar,” Ned said, reaching for a fresh tunic, the lightest linen he could find. “I’ll see him at once.”
The eunuch was sitting on the window seat when Ned entered, watching the knights of the Kingsguard practice at swords in the yard below. The other men looked to be children playing with sticks in comparison to Ser Barristan and Arthur. As you could count the number of men who could match them on one hand, they often sparred together. “If only Ser Barristan’s mind were as nimble as his blade,” he said wistfully, “our council meetings would be a good deal livelier.”
“Ser Barristan is as valiant and honorable as any man in King’s Landing.” Ned stated, unsure if he was being sarcastic or if he actually meant it. He was all too aware that Barristan did nothing to help Lyanna, or Brandon, or his father. Arthur had at least turned on Rhaegar. Yet, in the rat’s nest of a city, it could be had for a good man to do what he wished.
“Ah, yes. Your duel on the Trident is talked about almost as often as Robert and Rhaegar’s.” Varys giggled. “Mayhaps the two of you shall meet again on the tourney grounds. Who would be the victor, I wonder?”
The question of who might win the tourney interested Ned not in the least. “Is there a reason for this visit, Lord Varys, or are you here simply to enjoy the view from my window?”
The eunuch smiled. “Petyr and I both wished to help you uncover what happened to Jon Arryn. And after my dear friend’s… tragic demise.” Ned could have sworn he saw something in the eunuch’s eyes. He knows, Ned thought. If he knew, why not tell someone? Ned tried to keep his face a stone wall as Varys continued. “The Small Council grows smaller every day. It seems only I am left to help you, and so I have.”
“You have something for me?”
“Someone,” Varys corrected. “Four someones, if truth be told. Had you thought to question the Hand’s servants?”
Ned frowned. “Would that I could. Lady Arryn took her household back to the Eyrie.” Lysa had done him no favor in that regard. All those who had stood closest to her husband had gone with her when she left: Jon’s maester, his steward, the captain of his guard, his knights and retainers.
“Most of her household,” Varys tittered, “not all. A few remain. A kitchen girl hastily wed to one of Lord Renly’s grooms, a stablehand who joined the City Watch, a potboy discharged from service for theft, and Lord Arryn’s squire.”
“His squire?” Ned was pleasantly surprised. A man’s squire often knew a great deal of his comings and goings.
“Ser Hugh of the Vale,” Varys named him. “The king knighted the boy after Lord Arryn’s death.”
“I shall send for him,” Ned said. “And the others.”
Varys winced. “My Prince, step over here to the window, if you would be so kind.”
“Why?”
“Come, and I’ll show you, my Prince.”
Frowning, Ned crossed to the window. The eunuch made a casual gesture. “There, across the yard, at the door of the armory, do you see the boy squatting by the steps honing a sword with an oilstone?”
“What of him?”
“He used to report to Littlefinger, before his passing. I know not who he spies for now.” He shifted in the window seat. “Now glance at the wall. Farther west, above the stables. The guardsman leaning on the ramparts?”
Ned saw the man. “Another of the Littlefinger’s whisperers?”
“No, this one belongs to the queen. Notice that he enjoys a fine view of the door to this tower, the better to note who calls on you. There are others, many unknown even to me. The Red Keep is full of eyes.”
Ned had no taste for these intrigues. “Seven hells,” he swore. It did seem as though the man on the walls was watching him. Suddenly uncomfortable, Ned moved away from the window. He was already coming to the game late, he needed to know who were his friends, and who were his foes.
Varys stood up. “Is there a man in your service that you trust utterly and completely?”
“Yes,” said Ned.
“In that case, I have a delightful palace in Valyria that I would dearly love to sell you,” Varys giggled. “The wiser answer was no, my prince, but be that as it may. Send this paragon of yours to Ser Hugh and the others. Your own comings and goings will be noted, but all the spies in the Red Keep cannot watch every man in your service every hour of the day.” He started for the door.
“Lord Varys,” Ned called after him. “I... am grateful for your help. Perhaps I was wrong to distrust you.”
Varys smiled, with a glint in his eye. “This is a dangerous game we play, I will help you as best I can. For this is a game I fully intend to win.”
****************************************************************************************************
“It’s the Hand’s tourney that’s the cause of all the trouble, my lords,” the Commander of the City Watch complained to the king’s council.
“The king’s tourney,” Ned corrected, wincing. “I assure you, the Hand wants no part of it.”
“Call it what you will, my lord. Knights have been arriving from all over the realm, each of them bringing a small army. This cursed heat had half the city in a fever to start, and now with all these visitors... Last night we had a drowning, a tavern riot, three knife fights, a rape, robberies beyond count, and a drunken horse race down the Street of the Sisters. The night before a woman’s head was found in the Great Sept, floating in the rainbow pool. No one seems to know how it got there or who it belongs to.”
“How dreadful,” Varys said with a shudder.
Lord Renly Baratheon was less sympathetic. “If you cannot keep the king’s peace, Janos, perhaps the City Watch should be commanded by someone who can.”
Stout, jowly Janos Slynt puffed himself up like an angry frog, his bald pate reddening. “Aegon the Dragon himself could not keep the peace, Lord Renly. I need more men.”
“How many?” Ned asked, leaning forward. As ever, Robert had not troubled himself to attend the council session, so it fell to his Hand to speak for him.
“As many as can be gotten, Lord Hand.”
“Hire fifty new men,” Ned told him. “Lady Yennefer will see that you get the coin.” After waiting an appropriate amount of time, Ned had appointed Yennefer to the Small Council as the realms Master of Coin.
Pycelle had voiced his opposition to a woman being given such a high rank, lowering Ned’s opinion of the man greatly. In a city full of enemies and backstabbers, Ned felt at ease to have at least one council member he trusted completely.
Yennefer was also one of the smartest people he knew, if anyone would be able to sort through the muddle of Littlefinger’s thousand accounts, it would be her.
“It won’t be easy, but I shall manage.” Yennefer said, as always dressed immaculately in black and white.
“Good.” Ned turned back to Janos Slynt. “I will also give you another fifty good swords from my own household guard, to serve with the Watch until the crowds have left.”
“All thanks, Lord Hand,” Slynt said, bowing. “I promise you, they shall be put to good use.”
When the Commander had taken his leave, Ned turned to the rest of the council. “The sooner this folly is done with, the better I shall like it.” As if the expense and trouble were not irksome enough, all and sundry insisted on salting Ned’s wound by calling it “the Hand’s tourney,” as if he were the cause of it. And Robert honestly seemed to think he should feel honored!
“The realm prospers from such events, my prince,” Grand Maester Pycelle said. “They bring the great the chance of glory, and the lowly a respite from their woes.”
“And put coins in many a pocket,” Yennefer added. “Perhaps we should take ownership of every brothel in the city. We’d make back all the crowns debts in a week.”
Lord Renly laughed. “We’re fortunate my brother Stannis is not with us. Once he proposed to outlaw brothels? The king asked him if perhaps he’d like to outlaw eating, shitting, and breathing while he was at it. If truth be told, I ofttimes wonder how Stannis ever got that ugly daughter of his. He goes to his marriage bed like a man marching to a battleeld, with a grim look in his eyes and a determination to do his duty.”
Ned had not joined the laughter. “I wonder about your brother Stannis as well. I wonder when he intends to end his visit to Dragonstone and resume his seat on this council.”
“No doubt as soon as we’ve scourged all those whores into the sea,” Renly replied, provoking more laughter.
“I have heard quite enough about whores for one day,” Ned said, rising. “Until the morrow.”
Harwin had the door when Ned returned to the Tower of the Hand. “Summon Harper to my chambers and tell your father to saddle my horse,” Ned told him, too brusquely.
“As you say, my prince.”
The Red Keep and the “Hand’s tourney” were chaffing him raw, Ned reflected as he climbed. He yearned for the comfort of his wives, for the sounds of his children crossing swords in the practice yard, for the cool days and cold nights of the north.
In his chambers he stripped o his council silks and sat for a moment with the book while he waited for Harper to arrive. The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children, by Grand Maester Malleon. Pycelle had spoken truly; it made for ponderous reading. Yet Jon Arryn had asked for it, and Ned felt certain he had reasons. There was something here, some truth buried in these brittle yellow pages, if only he could see it. But what? The tome was over a century old. Scarcely a man now alive had yet been born when Malleon had compiled his dusty lists of weddings, births, and deaths.
He opened to the section on House Lannister once more, and turned the pages slowly, hoping against hope that something would leap out at him.
A sharp rap on the door heralded Harper and the Chosen Men. Ned closed Malleon’s tome and bid him enter. “I’ve promised the City Watch fifty of my guard until the tourney is done,” he told him. “I rely on you to make the choice. Give Alyn the command, and make certain the men understand that they are needed to stop fights, not start them.” Rising, Ned opened a cedar chest and removed a light linen undertunic. “Did you find the stableboy?”
“The watchman, my lord,” Harper said. “He vows he’ll never touch another horse.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He claims he knew Lord Arryn well. Fast friends, they were.” Harper snorted. “The Hand always gave the lads a copper on their name days, he says. Had a way with horses. Never rode his mounts too hard, and brought them carrots and apples, so they were always pleased to see him.”
“Carrots and apples,” Ned repeated. It sounded as if this boy would be even less use than the others. And he was the last of the four Varys had turned up. Harper and the Chosen Men had spoken to each of them in turn.
Ser Hugh had been brusque and uninformative, and arrogant as only a new-made knight can be. If the Hand wished to talk to him, he should be pleased to receive him, but he would not be questioned by a mere Chosen Man... even if said Chosen Man was ten years older and a hundred times the swordsman.
The serving girl had at least been pleasant, at least according to Perkins, so pleasant that Hagman had found them sharing a bed the next day. It was pretty easy to imagine why she had been hastily married to a groom. She said Lord Jon had been reading more than was good for him, that he was troubled and melancholy over his young son’s frailty, and gruff with his lady wife.
The potboy, now cordwainer, had never exchanged so much as a word with Lord Jon, but he was full of oddments of kitchen gossip: The lord had been quarreling with the king, the lord only picked at his food, the lord was sending his boy to be fostered on Dragonstone, the lord had taken a great interest in the breeding of hunting hounds, the lord had visited a master armorer to commission a new suit of plate, wrought all in pale silver with a blue jasper falcon and a mother-of-pearl moon on the breast. The king’s own brother had gone with him to help choose the design, the potboy said. No, not Lord Renly, the other one, Lord Stannis.
“Did our watchman recall anything else of note?”
“The lad swears Lord Jon was as strong as a man half his age. Often went riding with Lord Stannis, he says.”
Stannis again, Ned thought. He found that curious. Jon Arryn and he had been cordial, but never friendly. And while Robert had been riding north to Winterfell, Stannis had removed himself to Dragonstone. As yet, he had given no word as to when he might return.
“Where did they go on these rides?” Ned asked.
“The boy says that they visited a brothel.” Cooper chuckled.
“A brothel?” Ned said. “The Lord of the Eyrie and Hand of the King visited a brothel with Stannis Baratheon?”
He shook his head, incredulous, wondering what Lord Renly would make of this tidbit. Robert’s lusts were the subject of ribald drinking songs throughout the realm, but Stannis was a different sort of man; a bare year younger than the king, yet utterly unlike him, stern, humorless, unforgiving, grim in his sense of duty.
“The boy insists it’s true.” Harper stated. “The Hand took three guardsmen with him, and the boy says they were joking of it when he took their horses afterward.”
“Which brothel?” Ned asked.
“The boy did not know. The guards would.”
“A pity Lysa carried them off to the Vale,” Ned said dryly. “The gods are doing their best to vex us. Lady Lysa, Maester Colemon, Lord Stannis... Everyone who might actually know the truth of what happened to Jon Arryn is a thousand leagues away.”
“Why is that?” Harris pondered. “None of this feels like it was by chance… Like but sheep, that someone’s trying to heard down a certain lane…”
“You’ve been reading too much.” Cooper chuckled.
“Will you summon Lord Stannis back from Dragonstone?” Perkins asked Ned.
“Not yet,” Ned said. “Not until I have a better notion of what this is all about and where he stands.” Harris’s words nagged at him. Why did Stannis leave? Had he played some part in Jon Arryn’s murder? Or was he afraid? Ned found it hard to imagine what could frighten Stannis Baratheon. Was he being herded? If so, to what end? And by whom?
“Bring me my doublet, if you would. The grey, with the direwolf sigil. I want this armorer to know who I am. It might make him more forthcoming.”
Harper went to the wardrobe. “Lord Renly is brother to Lord Stannis as well as the king.”
“Yet it seems that he was not invited on these rides.” Ned was not sure what to make of Renly, with all his friendly ways and easy smiles. A few days past, he had taken Ned aside to show him an exquisite rose gold locklet. Inside was a miniature painted in the vivid Myrish style, of a lovely girl with doe’s eyes and a cascade of soft brown hair. Renly had seemed anxious to know if the girl reminded him of anyone, and when Ned had no answer but a shrug, he had seemed disappointed. The maid was Loras Tyrell’s sister Margaery, he’d confessed, but there were those who said she looked like Lyanna. “No,” Ned had told him, bemused. Could it be that Lord Renly, who looked so like a young Robert, had conceived a passion for a girl he fancied to be a young Lyanna? That struck him as more than passing queer.
Harper held out the doublet, and Ned slid his hands through the armholes. “Perhaps Lord Stannis will return for Robert’s tourney,” he said as Harper laced the garment up the back.
“That’d be a stroke of fortune.” Hagman said.
Ned summoned Ice to his hand and buckled the scabbard to his belt. “In other words, not bloody likely.” His smile was grim.
Harper draped Ned’s cloak across his shoulders and clasped it at the throat with the Hand’s chain. “The armorer lives above his shop, in a large house at the top of the Street of Steel. Alyn knows the way, my prince.”
Ned nodded. “The gods help this potboy if he’s sent me off chasing after shadows.” It was a slim enough lead, but the Jon Arryn that Ned had known was not one to wear jeweled and silvered plate. Steel was steel; it was meant for protection, not ornament. He might have changed his views, to be sure. He would scarcely have been the first man who came to look on things dierently after a few years at court... but the change was marked enough to make Ned wonder.
“Is there any other service we might perform?” Harris asked.
“I suppose you’d best begin visiting whorehouses.”
“Hard duty, but someone has to do it.” Cooper grinned, it certainly seemed to make the rest of the men happy. “The rest o’ the men will be glad to help. Porther has made a fair start already.”
“You’re with me Harper.” Ned said as he left the room, with the Chosen Men following him.
“Hard luck, Harps.” Hagman laughed.
“Ah well,” Harper sighed. “Ramona would’ve had my balls on a skewer if she found out anyway.”
Ned’s favorite horse was saddled and waiting in the yard. Harper and Jacks fell in beside him as he rode through the yard. They mustn’t have been too comfortable in their armour, yet they said no word of complaint. As Ned passed beneath the King’s Gate into the stink of the city, his grey and white cloak streaming from his shoulders, he saw eyes everywhere and kicked his mount into a trot. His guard followed.
From the road out of the King’s Gate, Ned could see the Dragonpit, sitting atop the Hill of Rhaenys, wife of Torrhen Stark. He had gone to see Stormbreaker a few days ago. Seeing the once mighty dragon in such a frail state saddened him greatly. It almost reminded him of Cannibal, Arys’s dragon and how pitiful it had seemed when Snowsong killed it.
Robert’s dragon had perked up when he had seen Snowsong again, managing to rise on his bony legs to greet his old mate. Snowsong had taken up residence right next to Stormbreaker in his cubicle of the Dragonpit, mostly refusing to leave his side.
Multiple times, the dragon keepers had needed to call on Ned to stop her from keeping them away as they tried to feed Stormbreaker his helping of meat. She did not understand that they were trying to help him. Only when Ned had arrived, with a cart of fresh fish, did Snowsong let anyone near Stormbreaker.
Ned turned off the square where the Street of Steel began and followed its winding path up a long hill, past blacksmiths working at open forges, freeriders haggling over mail shirts, and grizzled ironmongers selling old blades and razors from their wagons.
The farther they climbed, the larger the buildings grew. The man they wanted was all the way at the top of the hill, in a huge house of timber and plaster whose upper stories loomed over the narrow street. The double doors showed a hunting scene carved in ebony and weirwood. A pair of stone knights stood sentry at the entrance, armored in fanciful suits of polished red steel that transformed them into grin and unicorn. Ned left his horse with Jacks and shouldered his way inside.
The slim young serving girl took quick note of Ned’s chain and the sigil on his doublet, and the master came hurrying out, all smiles and bows.
“Wine for the King’s Hand,” he told the girl, gesturing Ned to a couch. “I am Tobho Mott, my lord, please, please, put yourself at ease.” He wore a black velvet coat with hammers embroidered on the sleeves in silver thread. Around his neck was a heavy silver chain and a sapphire as large as a pigeon’s egg. “If you are in need of new arms for the Hand’s tourney, you have come to the right shop.”
Ned did not bother to correct him. “My work is costly, and I make no apologies for that, my lord,” he said as he lled two matching silver goblets. “You will not find craftsmanship equal to mine anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, I promise you. Any village smith can hammer out a shirt of mail; my work is art.” Ned sipped his wine and let the man go on. “The direwolf is the sigil of House Stark, is it not? I could fashion a direwolf helm so real that children will run from you in the street,” he vowed.
Ned smiled. “Did you make a falcon helm for Lord Arryn?”
Tobho Mott paused a long moment and set aside his wine. “The Hand did call upon me, with Lord Stannis. I regret to say, they did not honor me with their patronage.” Ned looked at the man evenly, saying nothing, waiting. He had found over the years that silence sometimes yielded more than questions. And so it was this time. “They asked to see the boy,” the armorer said, “so I took them back to the forge.”
“The boy,” Ned echoed. He had no notion who the boy might be. “I should like to see the boy as well.”
Tobho Mott gave him a cool, careful look. “As you wish, my lord,” he said with no trace of his former friendliness. He led Ned out a rear door and across a narrow yard, back to the cavernous stone barn where the work was done. When the armorer opened the door, the blast of hot air that came through made Ned feel as though he were walking into a dragon’s mouth. Inside, a forge blazed in each corner, and the air stank of smoke and sulfur. Journeymen armorers glanced up from their hammers and tongs just long enough to wipe the sweat from their brows, while bare- chested apprentice boys worked the bellows.
The master called over a tall lad a little older than Arya, his arms and chest corded with muscle. “This is Lord Stark, the new Hand of the King,” he told him as the boy looked at Ned through sullen blue eyes and pushed back sweat-soaked hair with his ngers. Thick hair, shaggy and unkempt and black as ink. The shadow of a new beard darkened his jaw. “This is Gendry. Strong for his age, and he works hard. Show the Hand that helmet you made, lad.” Almost shyly, the boy led them to his bench, and a steel helm shaped like a bull’s head, with two great curving horns.
Ned turned the helm over in his hands. It was raw steel, unpolished but expertly shaped. “This is fine work. I would be pleased if you would let me buy it.”
The boy snatched it out of his hands. “It’s not for sale.”
Tobho Mott looked horror-struck. “Boy, this is the King’s Hand. If his lordship wants this helm, make him a gift of it. He honors you by asking.”
“I made it for me,” the boy said stubbornly.
“A hundred pardons, my lord,” his master said hurriedly to Ned. “The boy is crude as new steel, and like new steel would profit from some beating. That helm is journeyman’s work at best. Forgive him and I promise I will craft you a helm like none you have ever seen.”
“He’s done nothing that requires my forgiveness. Gendry, when Lord Arryn came to see you, what did you talk about?”
“He asked me questions is all, m’lord.”
“What sort of questions?”
The boy shrugged. “How was I, and was I well treated, and if I liked the work, and stuff about my mother. Who she was and what she looked like and all.”
“What did you tell him?” Ned asked.
The boy shoved a fresh fall of black hair o his forehead. “She died when I was little. She had yellow hair, and sometimes she used to sing to me, I remember. She worked in an alehouse.”
“Did Lord Stannis question you as well?”
“The bald one? No, not him. He never said no word, just glared at me, like I was some raper who done for his daughter.”
“Mind your filthy tongue,” the master said. “This is the King’s own Hand.” The boy lowered his eyes. “A smart boy, but stubborn. That helm... the others call him bullheaded, so he threw it in their teeth.”
Ned touched the boy’s head, moving the thick black hair. “Look at me, Gendry.” The apprentice lifted his face. Ned studied the shape of his jaw, the eyes like blue ice. Yes, he thought, I see it. “Go back to your work, lad. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He walked back to the house with the master. “Who paid the boy’s apprentice fee?” he asked lightly.
Mott looked fretful. “You saw the boy. Such a strong boy. Those hands of his, those hands were made for hammers. He had such promise, I took him on without a fee.”
“The truth now,” Ned urged. “The streets are full of strong boys. The day you take on an apprentice without a fee will be the day the Wall comes down. Who paid for him?”
“A lord,” the master said reluctantly. “He gave no name, and wore no sigil on his coat. He paid in gold, twice the customary sum, and said he was paying once for the boy, and once for my silence.”
“Describe him.”
“He was stout, round of shoulder, not so tall as you. Brown beard, but there was a bit of red in it, I’ll swear. He wore a rich cloak, that I do remember, heavy purple velvet worked with silver threads, but the hood shadowed his face and I never did see him clear.” He hesitated a moment. “My lord, I want no trouble.”
“None of us wants trouble, but I fear these are troubled times, Master Mott,” Ned said. “You know who the boy is.”
“I am only an armorer, my lord. I know what I’m told.”
“You know who the boy is,” Ned repeated patiently. “That is not a question.”
“The boy is my apprentice,” the master said. He looked Ned in the eye, stubborn as old iron. “Who he was before he came to me, that’s none of my concern.”
Ned nodded. He decided that he liked Tobho Mott, master armorer. “If the day ever comes when Gendry would rather wield a sword than forge one, send him to me. He has the look of a warrior. Until then, you have my thanks, Master Mott, and my promise. Should I ever want a helm to frighten children, this will be the first place I visit.”
His guard was waiting outside with the horses. “Did you find anything?” Harper asked as Ned mounted up.
“I did,” Ned told him, wondering. What had Jon Arryn wanted with a king’s bastard, and why was it worth his life?
As Ned was was riding back to the Red Keep, thinking on what he had learned, he heard a column of riders came up the street behind them, Ned was happy to let them pass until he heard a voice calling out his name. Turning around, Ned saw Oberyn Martell riding up to him, a horseman beside him flying the Martell banner high, and thoughts of Jon Arryn and plots faded.
“Prince Oberyn.” He greeted his good-brother, hoping that he wasn’t aware what Ned and Tyene had done together in Winterfell.
“It’s been too long,” Oberyn rode up beside him. It had been a number of years since Ned had seen him last. For one of Elia’s namedays, he had taken her, Cat and Ash to Dorne, where they’d gotten up to all kinds of debauchery with Mellario and Ellaria Sand. “How are my sister and her daughter?”
“They were well, last I heard.” Ned decided not to tell Oberyn the whole truth, not while in the view of so many. “Are you here for the tourney?”
“Your tourney?” Ned decided not to correct him. “Of course I am. The rest of the family have also come to watch and take part.” Oberyn informed him.
“Truly?”
“Yes, most of them have never seen the capital before, and of course, they wanted to see you.” Oberyn laughed. “They’re mostly in a carriage a ways further back.”
“How many of them are here?”
“I’d say all of them, save for Elia and Rhaenys.” Oberyn answered him. “Though, I will say there are a fair few who are eager to see you.” The Dornish prince laughed.
Ned stilled for a moment, thinking of just how many Martell women were in King’s Landing with him at that moment, remembering Tyene’s words. If she was telling the truth, the lot of them would eat him alive.
Though, Ned thought as he settled into his saddle, that didn’t sound like a bad thing.