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The fog clung to the camp like a death shroud, turning the frantic movements of Northern soldiers into ghostly apparitions. Torches cut weak halos through the mist as Stark men fanned out, tracking the fleeing assassins.
"There! Movement to the west!" a soldier called out, his Northern accent thick with urgency.
Lord Anden's massive form materialized from the fog, his great axe in hand. Blood still dripped from its blade, pattering on the damp grass like the first drops of rain. Behind him came more Stark men, accompanied by three snarling hounds straining at their leashes.
"Release them," Anden commanded, his voice a deep rumble that carried across the camp.
The dogs lunged forward, disappearing into the murk with eager growls. The sounds of pursuit—barking, shouting, the crash of bodies through underbrush—faded and swelled as the fog played tricks with distance.
Ned emerged from Benjen's tent, his nightshirt stained with his brother's blood. His face was carved from stone, grey eyes hard as flint as he surveyed the chaos around him.
"The Maester is with him now," Ned informed his grandfather, his voice tight with controlled fury.
Anden nodded once, his weathered face unreadable. "We'll have justice for this, boy. But first, we need answers."
From somewhere in the mist came a howl of triumph from one of the hounds, followed by a man's scream. Then another. Soldiers' voices rose in the fog.
"We've got one, m'lord!" "Another here!" "This one's trying to reach the water!"
Within minutes, Northern soldiers dragged three captives back to the center of camp. Even in the dim pre-dawn light, it was clear something was wrong with them. Their steps faltered, their faces ashen with a sickly pallor that went beyond mere fear.
Anden circled the first captive, studying him with narrowed eyes. The man wore Lannister armor, though it fit poorly around the shoulders. White fluid trickled from his nostrils, and his breathing came in labored gasps.
"Who sent you?" Anden demanded, towering over the assassin.
The man's eyes widened at the giant's proximity, but a strange smile twisted his lips. "The Lannisters," he gasped. "Lord Tywin... wants Stark... dead."
The second assassin dropped to his knees suddenly, his body convulsing. Frothy vomit spilled from his mouth, tinged with streaks of blood. Still, he managed to choke out, "The Lannisters... send their... regards."
"They're poisoned," Ned realized, stepping closer. "They poisoned themselves before the attack."
Lord Anden seized the first assassin by the throat, lifting him clear off the ground with one massive hand. "Who really sent you?" he growled, face inches from the dying man's. "Tell me the truth, and I'll make your passing quicker."
The man's eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. His lips moved, struggling to form words, but only bloody spittle emerged. A violent tremor passed through his body. White froth bubbled from his nose and mouth, cascading down his chin and spattering on Anden's forearm.
"Seven hells," one of the Stark soldiers muttered, turning away.
The third assassin, held down by two guardsmen, started to laugh—a wet, gurgling sound that raised the hairs on Ned's neck. The man's skin had taken on a grey-blue tint, and dark veins stood out prominently against his waxen face.
"Too late," he gasped between convulsions. "All... dead men... now."
"Check their clothing," Anden ordered, dropping the first assassin's body like discarded waste. "Search everything—armor, boots, any hidden compartments."
Ned watched as his men stripped the dying assassins, methodically checking every piece of clothing. The third captive—the one who'd been bitten by a hound—thrashed violently, his body arching in a grotesque bow as foam spewed from his mouth.
The third assassin's laughter turned to choking. Blood poured from his nose now, mixing with the white froth in a pink spray as he convulsed. "Lannisters... regard..." His words dissolved into a wet rattle as his eyes bulged, then went still. A final breath escaped his lips in a bloody sigh.
All three assassins now lay dead, their faces frozen in grotesque masks of suffering. The poison had worked quickly but without mercy.
Ned stepped forward, rage building in his chest. "I will have Tywin Lannister's head for this," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "The Northern lords—"
"Wait." Anden's hand fell on Ned's shoulder like an ancient tree root. "Something isn't right here."
"What isn't right is that my brother lies bleeding while Tywin Lannister plots murder!" Ned's voice rose sharply.
Around them, more torches appeared as soldiers and lords alike were drawn to the commotion. Anden's eyes narrowed, scanning the gathered faces.
"This isn't the time or place," he said quietly. "Come with me. Now."
Before Ned could protest further, the camp erupted with fresh activity. Lords who'd been roused from sleep by the chaos began to gather, demanding explanations.
.
In her tent, Lady Maege Mormont was already fully dressed in boiled leather and mail when her captain burst through the flap.
"My lady, there's been an attack—"
"I have ears, Jorelle," she cut him off, strapping her mace to her belt. "Who was attacked, and who did the attacking?"
"Lord Benjen Stark was wounded by assassins in Lannister armor."
Maege's weathered face hardened. "Where is Lord Stark now?"
"With Lord Anden, my lady. They've captured some of the assassins, but..."
"But what, man? Speak plainly."
"They're dead, my lady. Poisoned themselves before they could be questioned properly."
Maege paused, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Did they now? How convenient." She pushed past her captain.
.
Lord Roose Bolton observed the unfolding chaos with detached interest from the shadows near his tent. Unlike the other lords who rushed about shouting questions and demands, he remained perfectly still, pale eyes absorbing every detail.
A servant stood at his elbow, awaiting orders. Bolton's voice, when it came, was soft as falling snow.
"Bring me one of the bodies."
The servant hesitated. "My lord?"
"One of the assassins. Bring it to my tent. I wish to examine the poison used."
"The... the Northern lords might object, my lord."
Bolton's colorless eyes flickered to the man's face. "Then be discreet," he whispered. "And bring me a man who can describe, in detail, all that was found on their persons."
The servant bowed and slipped away into the fog. Lord Bolton watched the distant figures of Ned Stark and Lord Anden disappearing into one of the tents. A faint smile touched his bloodless lips.
"So it begins," he murmured to himself.
.
.
Ned strode into his tent with Lord Anden close behind, the giant northerner having to duck significantly to clear the entrance. Outside, the camp buzzed like a disturbed beehive, but inside the canvas walls, a heavy silence fell. Ned moved to the small table that served as his desk, bracing his hands against the wood, head bowed.
"I want Tywin Lannister to answer for this," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "My brother lies bleeding because of Lannister assassins."
Lord Anden settled his massive frame onto a reinforced stool that creaked under his weight. He studied his grandson's rigid posture with eyes as grey and cold as a winter sea.
"It's too convenient."
Ned's head snapped up. "Convenient? They wore Lannister armor. They carried Lannister weapons. They proclaimed Lannister responsibility with their dying breaths."
"Precisely." Anden leaned forward, the stool protesting. "When has Tywin Lannister ever been so... obvious? Think, Ned. When he orchestrated the Reynes' destruction, did he send men wearing golden lions to warn them first?"
"This is different—"
"Is it?" Anden's voice cut through Ned's protest like an axe through rotten wood. "The man who brought down the Reynes flooded their mines without warning. Tywin Lannister strikes from shadows, not with his banner waving proudly above his killers."
Ned paced the tent, restless as a caged direwolf. "You didn't see Robert's face when he spoke of Rhaegar's children. 'Dragonspawn,' he called them. Tywin knew exactly how to please his new king then. The man has no honor, no—"
"Tywin Lannister," Anden interrupted, "has no honor, but he has cunning in abundance. These assassins might as well have carried crimson banners announcing their intentions."
Ned's jaw tightened. "They said themselves they were sent by the Lannisters."
"Of course they did." Anden's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow filled the tent. "While dying of poison they took before the attack even began. What assassin poisons himself before completing his mission? What killer ensures he cannot be questioned?"
Before Ned could respond, the tent flap opened, and a Stark soldier entered, his arms full. "Beg pardon, m'lord," he said, bowing his head to Ned. "We searched the dead men as commanded. Found these sewn into their garments."
He laid several small pouches on the table. One spilled open, revealing golden coins stamped with the Lannister lion.
"Each man carried at least twenty gold dragons," the soldier reported. "All Lannister mint. Fresh, too—not worn from circulation."
Ned's expression darkened as he picked up one of the coins. "Thank you," he said to the soldier. "Post extra guards around my brother's tent. And mine."
The soldier bowed and withdrew, leaving Ned staring at the gold in his palm.
"There's your proof, Grandfather," he said quietly. "Lannister gold."
Lord Anden reached over with his massive hand and took the coin, examining it in the dim light. "Indeed," he agreed. "Fresh from the Lannister mint, just as you'd expect from men paid directly by Lord Tywin himself." His tone made the words a challenge rather than agreement.
"You think this is false evidence?" Ned asked.
"I think," Anden said deliberately, "that dead men have little use for gold." He gestured to the pouches. "Why give assassins who've already taken fatal poison enough gold to live comfortably for a year? Gold they knew would never be spent?"
He placed the coin back on the table with a dull clink. "And why send assassins already dying? Poison slows reflexes, dulls the mind. It's the worst possible condition for men tasked with killing a Stark."
Ned frowned, torn between rage and the uncomfortable logic of his grandfather's words. "Tywin is exactly the kind of man who would do this," he insisted. "He ordered the Mountain and Armory Lorch to kill Rhaegar's children—"
"Yes," Anden agreed, "he is exactly that kind of man. But he is not a fool who would leave his signature so clearly at the scene. And to what end? What does Tywin gain by killing you or your brother now?"
"Revenge for perceived slights—"
"Slights?" Anden laughed without humor. "Robert loves you more than his own brothers. Killing you would bring the full fury of the crown down on House Lannister. Tywin would risk everything—his position, his legacy—for what? The pleasure of sending men in his own armor to kill a Stark?"
Ned stared at the golden coins scattered across the table. Each one bore the proud lion of Lannister, each one a declaration of guilt. Too clear. Too certain.
"If not Tywin," Ned said slowly, "then who? And why make it look like the Lannisters?"
Lord Anden's eyes gleamed with grim understanding. "I don't know yet. But someone wants wolf and lion at each other's throats while the realm bleeds. Someone orchestrated this with care."
"Someone who benefits from chaos," Ned mused, his mind working through the possibilities.
"Precisely." Anden nodded. "This was meant to be discovered. These men were never meant to succeed—they were meant to be caught, to be identified as Lannisters."
Ned's hand closed around one of the gold coins, feeling its weight. "But their poison... the way they died."
"The white foam, the blood from nose and mouth, the convulsions—that's the Strangler, or something very like it. Rare. Expensive. Not the choice of common sellswords." Anden's weathered face grew somber. "Someone with knowledge of poisons. Someone with resources."
"So we have nothing," Ned said bitterly. "Just dead men and questions."
"We have caution," Anden corrected. "And wisdom enough not to spring the trap laid for us."
Ned was silent for a long moment, weighing his grandfather's words against the hot anger still burning in his chest. Finally, he spoke. "I need to see Benjen. Then we must gather the Northern lords. They'll be baying for Lannister blood by now."
"And what will you tell them?" Anden asked quietly.
"That we will have justice," Ned said firmly. "But justice requires truth, not vengeance. If the Lannisters are guilty, they will pay the price, but if they are not. I will not fight someone else's war."
Lord Anden nodded, something like pride flickering in his ancient eyes. "Spoken like a true Stark," he rumbled.
As they prepared to leave the tent, Ned paused. "Grandfather," he said quietly, "you were right to stop me from making accusations too quickly. But this attack cannot go unanswered, no matter who is behind it."
"And it won't," Anden said, rising to his full, intimidating height. "We Starks have long memories." The giant northerner flexed his massive hands. "Winter comes for all our enemies, in time."
Benjen's Tent
Dawn had barely broken over the camp as Ned approached his brother's tent. A double ring of Stark guards stood vigilant, their faces grim and watchful. They parted silently for their lord, nodding with respect as he passed.
Inside, the air hung heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the sharp herbal smells of a maester's work. Three oil lamps cast long shadows across the canvas walls. Benjen lay still on his cot, his face now ashen and drawn beneath hastily applied bandages. Two maesters worked over him—an older man with thinning grey hair who Ned recognized as Maester Wallys from Deepwood Motte, and a younger man whose chain looked newly forged.
Maester Wallys straightened as Ned entered, his hands stained crimson to the wrists. "Lord Stark," he greeted, his voice soft with fatigue.
"Will he live?" Ned asked without preamble, moving to his brother's side.
The maester nodded slowly. "The gods were with him tonight." He gestured to a deep wound at Benjen's throat that had been sewn closed with stitches. "This cut came within a finger's width of his major blood vessels. Had it struck true..." He left the sentence unfinished.
Ned's eyes traveled over his brother's body. Bandages wrapped Benjen's torso, already showing spots of blood seeping through. His breathing was shallow but steady.
"The stab wounds to his side penetrated deeply, but missed his vital organs," the younger maester explained, following Ned's gaze. "We've cleaned them thoroughly and applied poultices to prevent festering."
"And his throat?" Ned asked, noting how the bandage wrapped around Benjen's neck.
Maester Wallys's expression grew more somber. "The blade damaged some of the structures in his throat. He will live, but..." The old man hesitated.
"Speak plainly," Ned commanded.
"He will find it difficult to speak clearly from now on. The damage to his voice may improve with time, but I cannot promise a full recovery." The maester gestured to the various wounds. "He must remain still for several weeks. Any exertion could reopen his wounds or cause bleeding inside his body where we cannot see it."
"So he cannot ride against the Greyjoys," Ned concluded.
"No, my lord. Were he to attempt it, I fear he would not survive the journey to the ships."
The younger maester moved to a small table where he mixed herbs in a mortar. "We've given him milk of the poppy for the pain. He will sleep deeply for some time."
Ned nodded, grateful that at least his brother would not suffer while healing. "When will he wake?"
"Perhaps by nightfall," Maester Wallys replied. "But he should not try to speak when he does. The wound to his throat needs time to heal."
"I understand," Ned said. "Thank you for your care."
Maester Wallys bowed slightly. "We will prepare more medicine and return shortly. There is fresh water there if you wish to wash his face."
The two maesters withdrew discreetly, leaving Ned alone with his wounded brother. In the dim light, with his eyes closed and face pallid, Benjen looked terribly young—almost like the boy who had waved farewell when Ned rode south with Robert all those years ago.
Ned sat beside the cot, listening to his brother's labored breathing. He dipped a cloth in the cool water and gently wiped Benjen's brow, careful to avoid the bruises that were beginning to darken along his temple.
"You always did find trouble, little brother," Ned murmured, his voice barely audible. "Even as boys, you were the one who'd climb the highest tower or challenge the master-at-arms when you could barely lift a sword."
He wrung out the cloth, watching as water droplets fell back into the basin. "Mother used to say you were born with wolf's blood, like Brandon and Lyanna."
Benjen's eyelids flickered briefly, but he didn't wake. Beneath the bandages, his chest rose and fell in a rhythm that offered the only reassurance he still lived.
Ned dipped the cloth again, this time cleaning dried blood from his brother's hand. The skin around Benjen's knuckles was torn and bruised—evidence he had fought fiercely against his attackers.
"You should have been safe here," Ned continued quietly. "With all the armies of the realm gathered together." He glanced toward the tent entrance where his guards stood watch. "No Stark is ever truly safe south of the Neck. Father knew that. I should have remembered."
Ned recalled the moment he had entered Benjen's tent to find him surrounded by assassins. How alike they looked, even now. How easily the killers had mistaken one brother for another.
"They came for me," he said softly. "You're lying here because they thought you were me."
The weight of that knowledge settled heavily on Ned's shoulders. Another sibling harmed because of circumstances beyond their control. Another Stark bleeding in the South.
He placed his hand gently on Benjen's forearm, mindful of the bruises there. "I swear to you, Brother, I will find who did this. Not just the men who wielded the blades, but whoever sent them. Whoever orchestrated this attack will answer to Northern justice."
In the stillness of the tent, his words carried the weight of an oath sworn before the old gods.
"I will not lose another sibling to Southern schemes," Ned whispered fiercely. "Not while I draw breath."
Ned sat in silence then, keeping vigil as the morning light strengthened outside the tent walls. The coming hours would demand decisions, confrontations, and perhaps even battle—but for this moment, his only duty was to his brother.
"I will protect our family," Ned promised softly. "Whatever it takes."
Ned stood up and left the tent.
The Great Northern Tent
The Great Northern tent had been hastily erected at the edge of the camp—a massive structure of grey canvas bearing the direwolf of House Stark. By midmorning, it filled with lords and captains, their faces grim as winter as they gathered around the long wooden table that dominated the space. They listened to their Lord, Ned had told them what happened, and once he was done telling the tale, it didn't take long for the uproar to come.
Lord Umber—the Greatjon—pounded his massive fist on the table, making cups and maps jump. "Blood demands blood!" His voice boomed through the tent like a war horn. "The Lannisters think they can murder Starks without consequence? I say we show them Northern steel!"
A chorus of agreement rose from several lords. Rickard Karstark nodded vigorously, his long beard quivering with righteous anger. "My men stand ready, Lord Stark. Say the word, and we'll have Tywin Lannister's head on a pike by nightfall."
"And start a war within a war?" Lady Maege Mormont challenged, her voice cutting through the masculine bluster. The She-Bear of Bear Island stood with arms crossed over her mail-clad chest, her face set in stern lines. "Is that what you propose, Greatjon? That we abandon our king's campaign against the Greyjoys to settle scores with the Lannisters?"
"This was no mere slight," Lord Cerwyn argued. "This was attempted murder of Lord Stark's own brother!"
Roose Bolton spoke then, his soft voice somehow carrying through the tent despite its quietness. "And yet Lord Benjen lives. Perhaps we should be grateful for the incompetence of these... assassins."
"Incompetent or not," Galbart Glover said, "they wore Lannister armor and carried Lannister gold. The message is clear enough."
"Too clear," Lady Mormont retorted. "When has Tywin Lannister ever been so obvious in his scheming?"
The Greatjon snorted. "You think the Old Lion has suddenly grown subtle in his old age? The man sacked King's Landing and had babes murdered in their mother's arms."
"Exactly," Maege pressed. "And afterward, he wrapped the bodies in Lannister crimson and presented them to Robert like trophies. The man flaunts his cruelty. But he doesn't send assassins wearing his house colors."
A thoughtful silence fell over the tent as the Northern lords considered her words.
Wyman Manderly, massive in his sea-green velvets, stroked his multiple chins thoughtfully. "Lady Mormont raises a fair point. This attack was... theatrical. Almost as if it was designed to be discovered rather than succeed."
"Are you suggesting," Lord Karstark demanded incredulously, "that someone other than Tywin Lannister would dress men in Lannister armor and give them Lannister gold, just to put the blame on House Lannister?"
"It wouldn't be the first time enemies were played against each other by someone else," Roose Bolton observed.
The debate grew more heated, with Lord Umber's booming declarations occasionally drowned out by multiple voices arguing at once.
Lord Anden finally stepped forward, and a hush fell over the tent. The giant Northerner's presence commanded attention without words.
"My grandson lives," he rumbled, his deep voice resonating through the tent. "But not from any mercy shown by his attackers. The question before us is not whether we should seek vengeance, but against whom."
"The evidence points clearly to House Lannister," Lord Cerwyn insisted.
"Does it?" Anden asked. "Or does it point too clearly? These assassins carried more Lannister gold than they could spend in a year, yet had poisoned themselves before the attack began. They wore ill-fitting Lannister armor in the dark, when any armor would have served. And they shouted Lannister involvement with their dying breaths." He looked around the tent, his ancient eyes challenging. "What assassin announces his patron's name?"
The Northern lords exchanged uncertain glances.
"Perhaps," Howland Reed spoke for the first time, his quiet voice drawing all eyes to the small crannogman, "we should consider what gains Tywin Lannister would receive from Lord Stark's death, compared to what he would lose."
"King Robert would never forgive him," Wyman Manderly nodded. "The King loves Lord Stark more than his own brothers."
"And starting a blood feud with the North while engaged in war with the Greyjoys?" Lady Mormont shook her head. "Tywin Lannister is ruthless, but not foolish."
"So we do nothing?" the Greatjon demanded, outraged. "Let them bleed a Stark and walk away?"
"No," Ned finally spoke, silencing the tent. "We seek justice, not blind vengeance." He rose to his feet, looking each lord in the eye. "My brother was attacked by men wearing Lannister colors who carried Lannister gold. These are facts we cannot ignore."
He paused, then continued, "But as Lord Anden and Lady Mormont have pointed out, there are inconsistencies that cannot be dismissed. Before we commit the North to a course that might mean war with House Lannister, we must be certain of our target."
"What do you propose, Lord Stark?" Roose Bolton asked.
"I will speak with King Robert and Lord Arryn," Ned said firmly. "Robert is our king, but he is also my friend. He will not deny us justice if Tywin is truly responsible."
"And if he does?" Lord Karstark challenged.
A cold silence fell over the tent.
"Then," Ned said carefully, "we will reconsider our position. But I will not lead the North into war against the crown based on uncertainty and suspicion."
The Greatjon looked ready to object, but Maege Mormont spoke first. "Lord Stark is right. Let him speak with the King before we sharpen our axes. If this is Lannister work, Robert Baratheon will want blood as much as we do."
Grudging nods of agreement passed through the assembly. Wyman Manderly heaved himself to his feet. "The North stands with House Stark, as always. We await your word, Lord Eddard."
Ned acknowledged them with a grim nod. "Keep your men ready, but hold them in check. If this is someone's attempt to fracture the realm's forces before we face the Greyjoys, I'll not give them the satisfaction."
As the lords began to disperse, Lord Anden placed his massive hand on Ned's shoulder. "You've bought time," he rumbled quietly. "Use it wisely. Find the truth before blood flows."
Ned watched his bannermen file out, loyal but unsatisfied. Justice and vengeance walked a knife's edge, and the North remembered both its loyalties and its grievances.
"I'll speak with Robert immediately," he told his grandfather. "Before rumor spreads further."
The matter wasn't settled—far from it. But for now, the North would wait and watch.
The Royal Tent
The royal pavilion gleamed gold in the midday sun, the crowned stag of House Baratheon snapping proudly in the coastal breeze. Guards in gold and black stood at attention as Ned approached, their eyes watchful beneath their helms. Even in the midst of war preparations, royal ceremony persisted.
"Lord Stark to see His Grace," Ned announced.
The guards parted, and as Ned stepped through the entrance, he was greeted by a scene of chaos. Maps and reports littered the massive oak table that dominated the center of the tent. The air smelled of wine, candle wax, and the distinctive musk of Robert's favorite perfume from the Free Cities.
At the far end of the table stood Robert himself, his broad frame bent over a map of the Iron Islands, a goblet of wine already in hand despite the early hour. Beside him, Jon Arryn's slender figure.
A gangly boy with unmistakable golden Lannister hair hovered at Robert's elbow, struggling to hold a flagon of wine that looked too heavy for his thin arms.
"Seven hells, Lancel!" Robert barked as wine sloshed over the rim of his goblet. "If you can't pour without spilling, what good are you as a cupbearer?"
"I'm s-sorry, Your Grace," the boy stammered, his face flushing crimson.
Lancel Lannister, Ser Kevan's eldest son. The boy couldn't be more than nine or ten, yet here he was, serving the King who'd soon be leading armies against the Greyjoys.
Robert looked up, his face brightening instantly at the sight of Ned. "Ned! Come in, come in. We were just discussing the attack on Great Wyk." His brow furrowed suddenly. "How's your brother? I heard there was some trouble in the night."
"Trouble is one word for it," Ned replied grimly. "Benjen was attacked by assassins. He lives, but barely."
Robert's expression darkened like a gathering storm. "Assassins? In my camp? Who would dare?"
Ned glanced meaningfully at Lancel, who was still hovering nearby with the wine flagon.
Jon Arryn caught the look. "Lancel," he said gently, "perhaps you could seek out Lord Stannis and inform him that Lord Stark has arrived to speak with His Grace."
"But Lord Stannis said I was to remain with His Grace until—"
"OUT, BOY!" Robert roared suddenly, making Lancel jump so violently that wine splashed across the maps. "And take that damned flagon with you! Find Stannis if you must, or go count grains of sand on the beach—I don't care which!"
Lancel fled as if pursued by demons, nearly tripping over the tent flap in his haste.
Robert drained his goblet in one long swallow, then smashed it down on the table. "Now," he growled, "tell me about these assassins."
Ned recounted the events of the previous night—the attack, the discovery of the Lannister armor and gold, the dying men's proclamations that "the Lannisters send their regards." With each detail, Robert's face grew darker with rage, while Jon Arryn's became increasingly thoughtful.
When Ned described how the assassins had poisoned themselves before the attack, Jon Arryn's eyebrows rose sharply.
"They were poisoned before the attack?" he asked, his voice precise. "You're certain of this?"
"According to the maesters," Ned confirmed. "The poison was already working in their systems when they attacked Benjen."
"That's... unusual," Jon said carefully.
Robert, however, had seized on a different detail. "Lannister armor. Lannister gold." He spat the words like curses. "That lion-loving whoreson thinks he can murder the brother of my closest friend? IN MY CAMP?" His fist crashed down on the map table, sending markers scattering. "I'LL HAVE HIS HEAD!"
"Your Grace," Jon Arryn interjected, his voice remained calm, unlike Robert's fury. "Perhaps we should consider all possibilities before accusations are made."
"What other possibilities are there?" Robert demanded. "The men wore Lannister armor, carried Lannister gold, and died proclaiming Lannister involvement!"
"Which is precisely what troubles me," Jon replied. "It's all too... obvious."
Robert scoffed. "Obvious? Seven hells, Jon, Tywin Lannister has never been subtle! He drowned the Reynes in their own mines and displayed Targaryen children like hunting trophies!"
Ned felt a cold twist in his gut at the mention of the murdered Targaryen children. He pushed the feeling aside.
"My grandfather shares Lord Arryn's concerns," he said. "The attack was too blatant, too clearly marked as Lannister work."
"And you agree with this?" Robert asked incredulously, his blue eyes fixing on Ned.
Ned met his gaze steadily. "I believe we must be cautious before accusing the Lord of Casterly Rock of attempted murder. Especially when that murder would serve him poorly."
Robert's brow furrowed. "Explain."
"What would Tywin gain by killing me or my brother? Your wrath? A blood feud with the North? All while we prepare for war against the Greyjoys?" He shook his head. "It makes no sense."
"Unless," Jon Arryn added quietly, "someone wanted to create conflict between House Stark and House Lannister. Someone who benefits from division within our ranks."
"Balon Greyjoy?" Robert suggested.
Jon shook his head. "The Ironborn lack both the subtlety and the resources for such a scheme."
"Then who?" Robert demanded, throwing his hands up in frustration.
For a moment, silence hung in the tent. Maps fluttered in the breeze from the entrance. Outside, they could hear men drilling, hammers ringing on armor, the distant crash of waves against the shore.
"That," Jon Arryn said finally, "is what we must discover before action is taken."
Ned could see Robert's temper still simmering beneath the surface. "So we do nothing?" the king asked with dangerous quiet. "Let someone attack a Stark in my own camp and walk away unpunished?"
"Not nothing," Ned replied firmly. "My bannermen are already calling for Lannister blood. If I give the word, we'll have Northern steel against Lannister crimson before nightfall."
"And the realm will bleed," Jon Arryn added soberly. "Which may be exactly what our true enemy desires."
Robert glowered, but some of the rage had left his face, replaced by a reluctant thoughtfulness. He reached for the wine, then seemed to think better of it.
"What do you propose, then?" he asked Jon.
"A private meeting," the Hand replied. "You, me, Lord Stark, and Lord Tywin. Away from prying eyes and wagging tongues."
"To what end?" Ned asked.
"To gauge his reaction," Jon explained. "Tywin Lannister is many things, but he is not an accomplished mummer. If he's innocent of this particular crime, it will show in his response."
"And if he's guilty?" Robert pressed.
Jon's blue eyes hardened. "Then we will know our enemy, and justice can be swift."
Robert considered this, drumming his fingers on the table. "Very well," he said finally. "But I warn you both—if I see guilt in that golden lion's eyes, I'll smash his smug head like a pumpkin."
"That is your right as king," Jon acknowledged. "But first, let us be certain. For all our sakes."
.
.
With the help of Jon Arryn and the King, it didn't take long for Tywin to be informed that the King wanted to meet with him.
Ned arrived first with Jon Arryn, who had insisted on this neutral ground rather than the royal pavilion. The Hand of the King arranged the chairs, ensuring no seat held prominence over the others.
"Remember," Jon murmured to Ned as they waited, "we seek truth, not confrontation."
"Truth and justice aren't always the same thing," Ned replied quietly.
Before Jon could respond, the tent flap opened, and Robert entered, his massive frame seeming to fill the small space.
"Is he coming?" Robert demanded without preamble.
Jon nodded. "Lord Tywin confirmed he would attend, Your Grace."
"Good," Robert grunted, settling into a chair that creaked beneath his weight. "Let's see what the Old Lion has to say for himself."
They didn't wait long. The tent flap parted again, admitting two figures—Lord Tywin Lannister and his brother, Ser Kevan, who followed a half-step behind.
"Your Grace," Tywin said. "Lord Hand. Lord Stark." Each acknowledgment came with the slightest incline of his head—enough for courtesy but not a fraction more.
"Lord Tywin," Jon Arryn replied. "Thank you for joining us. And Ser Kevan, welcome."
"I was not aware this would be a delegation rather than a private audience," Robert said, eyeing Kevan with suspicion.
"My brother serves as my most trusted advisor," Tywin replied smoothly. "Just as Lord Stark serves you, Your Grace."
Ned felt a flicker of irritation at being compared to Kevan Lannister, but he kept his face impassive.
"Please, be seated," Jon gestured to the empty chairs. "We have matters of grave importance to discuss."
Tywin took his seat. "Indeed. I understand we sail for the Iron Islands within days. Is there some change to the battle plans?"
"We're not here to discuss the Greyjoys," Robert said bluntly. "We're here about the attempt on Lord Stark's life last night."
If Tywin was surprised, he showed no sign of it. His green eyes, flecked with gold in the lamplight, remained steady. "I had heard rumors of some disturbance in the Northern camp. An assassination attempt, was it?"
"On my brother," Ned said flatly. "By men wearing Lannister armor and carrying freshly minted Lannister gold."
Now, a flicker of something—perhaps genuine surprise—crossed Tywin's face so quickly it might have been a trick of the light.
"Is that so?" Tywin's voice remained measured. "How... convenient."
"Convenient?" Robert's face flushed with anger. "You think attempted murder is convenient, Lannister?"
"I think," Tywin replied carefully, "that someone went to considerable trouble to ensure House Lannister would be implicated should their assassins fail." His gaze shifted to Ned. "Which, obviously, they did."
Kevan leaned forward slightly. "My lord brother, perhaps Lord Stark could share the full details of this incident?"
Ned recounted the events once more—the midnight attack, the assassins' dying proclamation of Lannister involvement, the evidence found on their persons.
Tywin listened in silence; his fingers steepled before him. When Ned finished, the Lord of Casterly Rock remained quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some middle distance.
"Well?" Robert demanded impatiently. "What say you to these charges?"
"Charges?" Tywin's eyebrow arched. "I was unaware formal accusations had been made."
"Don't play games, Lannister," Robert growled. "Your men attacked Benjen Stark in my camp."
"They were not my men." Tywin's voice was as cold and sharp as Valyrian steel.
"You deny it?" Ned asked.
"Categorically." Tywin's gaze locked with Ned's. "House Lannister had nothing to do with this attack."
"The evidence—" Robert began.
"The evidence," Tywin cut in, "suggests someone wished to put the blame on House Lannister while eliminating Lord Stark. Two objectives with one action." For the first time, a hint of genuine emotion showed in his face—not guilt, but anger. "Someone has attempted to use my house as a pawn in their game. I do not take such insults lightly."
Jon Arryn studied Tywin's face carefully. "You seem more concerned with the affront to your house than the attempt on Lord Stark's brother's life."
"I do not pretend to care about Benjen Stark," Tywin acknowledged coldly. "But I care very much about who would dare to implicate House Lannister in such a crude manner."
Kevan cleared his throat. "If I may, my lords. Consider the logic of it. Why would House Lannister send assassins in our own armor, carrying our own gold? Why would they poison themselves before their task was complete?"
"Fear of capture and interrogation," Ned suggested.
"Then why proclaim Lannister involvement with their dying breaths?" Kevan countered. "Why not die silently?"
The tent fell quiet as the four men considered this.
"Who stands to gain from conflict between our houses?" Tywin asked finally. "That is the question you should be asking."
Robert shifted uncomfortably. "The Greyjoys—"
"Lack both the subtlety and resources for such a scheme," Tywin finished dismissively. "No, this one is not as foolish."
"If not you," Robert demanded, "then who?"
"There are many who would benefit from chaos in the realm," Tywin replied. "Former Targaryen loyalists. Ambitious lesser houses. Foreign powers." He spread his hands. "I cannot name your enemy, Your Grace. I can only tell you it is not House Lannister."
Jon Arryn leaned forward. "Lord Tywin, would you swear this before the old gods and the new?"
"I would." Tywin's response came without hesitation. "House Lannister had no part in this attack. But I will have a part in discovering who did, and when I do..." He left the threat unspoken.
Ned studied the Lannister lord's face. There was anger there, certainly, but not the kind of defensive rage one would expect from a guilty man caught in a lie. Rather, it was the cold fury of a proud lord who'd been used as a scapegoat.
"I believe him," Jon Arryn said quietly.
Robert looked surprised. "You do?"
"I do," Jon nodded. "Lord Tywin is many things, but he is not a fool. This attack was foolish in its execution and obvious in its framing. That is not the Lannister way."
Ned found himself reluctantly agreeing. Whatever his feelings about Tywin Lannister—and they were far from warm—this crude attempt lacked the calculating efficiency the Old Lion was known for.
"Then we're back where we started," Robert grumbled. "With Benjen Stark wounded and no one to punish for it."
"Not quite," Tywin said. "You now know you have an enemy cunning enough to attempt to turn your greatest houses against each other on the eve of war." He rose from his chair. "I suggest we find this enemy before they succeed."
Note: This Assassination Attempt will play a big role in the future of this story. It will not be forgotten. Very Soon, there will be a time skip. It's time for Jon to grow up and for him to change Westeros and Essos and capture the hearts of many women :)
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