[The Tower of the Hand, King's Landing, 3rd Day of the 9th Moon, 298 AC]
The chamber stank of parchment, ink, and stale heat. It was not the musk of steel and stone Ned was accustomed to, but the reek of a city drowning in its own excess. Scrolls lay scattered across the oak table before him, each one bearing ledgers of coin, accounts of debts, and names of men he had never met, yet was expected to govern as if he knew their hearts.
The weight of it pressed against him heavier than plate.
Tundra lay by the open shutters, her silver-gray fur rippling in the sluggish breeze, yellow eyes watching the city beyond. Every now and again, her ears twitched at the sound of a distant cry or the clamor of carts upon the cobblestones below. She did not rest easily in King's Landing, and truth be told, neither did her master.
Ned dragged a hand through his hair, staring down at a parchment detailing the crown's debts. Gold Cloaks' pay three months behind. A hundred thousand dragons borrowed from the Iron Bank. Another two hundred from Lord Tywin. The sums were dizzying, enough to buy every hall in the North thrice over.
'Robert,' he thought bitterly. 'My brother in all but blood, and you squander kingdoms for wine and whores.'
He reached for Red Rain, the Valyrian steel sword Alaric had bestowed upon him three years prior. It lay unsheathed upon the table, its rippled crimson steel catching the light in waves that looked disturbingly like flowing blood. It was a stranger in his grasp, lighter than Ice, shorter, made for quicker strokes, but no less deadly.
Ned turned the blade in his palm, uneasy. "Your gift weighs more heavily than you know, Alaric," he murmured.
At that, Tundra's head lifted, ears pricking as if in answer. Her gaze fixed on him, unblinking, and Ned felt the pull of old northern ways, of signs and omens in beasts and dreams.
The wolf seemed to say, Steel is steel. It is what you do with it that matters.
He set Red Rain aside and rose. The walls of the Tower pressed in on him too tightly. He needed air. He needed truth.
[Later that morning]
By midmorning, he was riding through the streets with half a dozen Winter Guard at his back, Tundra padding alongside the destrier like a silent sentinel. The smallfolk scattered at the sight of her, some dropping baskets, others pulling children behind them. A few made the sign of the seven across their chests, muttering of demons and omens.
Ned caught whispers as he passed. Wolf come south… gods preserve us… northern devil…
He ignored them, though it knotted his gut. To him, Tundra was loyalty, kin, blood of the blood. But to these people, she was terror, the embodiment of some half-remembered nightmare.
"Best to let them talk," Ser Torrhen said beside him, hand on the pommel of his sword. "Fear can be as fine a shield as steel."
Ned grunted but said nothing. He was searching for answers, not awe.
They stopped at a cobbler's shop where Jon Arryn's former steward was said to dwell. The man was gaunt, his hands trembling as he spoke of his old master's final days. "Lord Arryn asked questions," he whispered, darting fearful glances. "Questions about the King's children. About lineages. Then… then he took ill."
Poison. The word rang unspoken in the silence, none muttered it, and yet, they all were thinking the same thought..
As they left, Ned's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Jon had been no fool. If he had found something that cost him his life, then the rot was deeper than coin and whores.
The city only deepened that certainty as they wound through its streets. He saw beggars starved half to death, mothers pawning their children for bread, Gold Cloaks turning a blind eye while cutpurses worked under their noses.
Tundra growled once, low and rumbling, when a starving boy reached for her fur. The lad's eyes went wide with terror, and he fled into the alleys. Ned's heart twisted.
"This city," Torrhen muttered darkly. "It's built on blood and shit."
Ned could not disagree.
[Mid-afternoon, the same day]
The courtyard of the Red Keep was no less stifling than the streets. When they returned, Renly Baratheon was waiting, clad in green and gold silk, his hair shining in the sun, his smile as bright as polished steel.
"My lord Hand," he greeted, his voice honeyed. "And the wolf of the North." His eyes flicked to Tundra, whose lips curled back just enough to show her teeth.
"She does not take kindly to strangers," Ned said.
"Then she is wise," Renly quipped, though the laugh that followed was thin. He gestured toward the shade of a stone archway. "Might I steal a moment of your counsel, my lord?"
Ned followed, wary. Tundra shadowed them, eyes never leaving the Baratheon.
Renly wasted little time. "You know as well as I that Robert grows weaker by the day. He spends his nights in cups and his mornings in regret. The realm cannot endure forever under such… indulgence."
"You would speak so of your brother?" Ned asked, coldly.
"I would speak so of the king," Renly corrected smoothly. "And I would see the realm steady when he falls." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "There are those who would support a younger, stronger Baratheon, if he had allies in the North."
Tundra growled, a deep rumble that silenced the air between them.
Renly's smile wavered. "Your beast does not approve."
"She has the sense to smell deceit," Ned said flatly. "Best you mind her counsel as well as mine."
Renly inclined his head, though his eyes gleamed. "A fair warning. But think on it, Lord Eddard. The lions have their claws deep. When Robert falls, who would you rather see on the throne, a boy of Lannister blood, or a Baratheon who remembers his debts to the North? Be sure to send my regards to your nephew."
Ned said nothing. He turned on his heel, Red Rain at his side, and left Renly standing in the shade.
'The fool toils with the wrong Stark.' Ned mused, 'Although, knowing Alaric, I'm sure Renly has already been verbally lashed once before.'
And with that, he continued on, the amusing thought of Alaric talking circles around Renly keeping him company.
[The Redkeep's Training Yard]
The training yard was blessedly free of courtiers and their games. Here, the ring of steel was honest, the sweat and bruises earned.
Ned stripped to his tunic, Red Rain in hand, facing Torrhen across the packed dirt. The elder Stark held his own blade steady, waiting.
They circled. Tundra prowled just beyond the ring, her gaze sharp as any master-at-arms.
The clash came sudden, steel ringing, sparks flying. Torrhen pressed quick and hard, testing Ned's balance with swift strikes. Red Rain moved easily, almost too easily, and Ned found himself stumbling to adjust. It was no greatsword like Ice, but a weapon meant for speed and precision.
He countered, blade flashing crimson in the sun, and drove Torrhen back two steps. The older man grinned, sweat on his brow. "Still sharp, Cousin."
"Sharp enough," Ned said, though his breath was harder than he liked.
When at last they broke, blades lowered, Torrhen spoke in a quieter tone. "You know Baelish cannot be trusted. He smiles, but his eyes are knives. Alaric is right, better to bare teeth before such a man than show your throat."
Ned wiped sweat from his brow. "My nephew was too quick to rage."
"Perhaps. But in this city, I'd sooner follow rage than naivety. At least rage sees the blade before it falls."
Ned looked at Red Rain, its crimson ripples glinting like blood. He thought of Alaric's fire, of Brandon's temper, of how both had been praised and damned in equal measure.
Tundra padded close, pressing her flank against his leg. She did not speak, but in her weight he felt the truth.
The game was turning. And wolves that did not bare their fangs would soon find themselves hunted.
[Later that night]
That night, Ned stood once more at the window of the Tower of the Hand, Red Rain hung around his hip. The city below glittered with torches, but all he saw was rot.
Jon Arryn's death. Baelish's lies. Lannister daggers. Renly's ambitions.
And Alaric, his brother's son, staring at the world with Brandon's fire in his eyes, and yet, none of the reckless abandon that had gotten his father murdered.
All he could do now was hope Alaric's approach was the right one to take and hope that same fire that burned his brother didn't come for his nephew.
"Winter is coming," Ned whispered, stroking Tundra's fur. "But perhaps it has come already, in this den of snakes."
The she-wolf's ears twitched. Her yellow eyes met his, and in them, Ned saw not comfort, but challenge.
Steel in the South. That was what was required. Honor, yes, but steel as well.
And he swore then, silently, that the wolves of Winterfell would not be burned again.
Ned, tired of the stench of the city, made his way back into his chambers.
He quickly sat down at the long table, candle stubs guttering in their pools of wax. The crown's debts sprawled across the oak in neat columns of ruin, yet he could not bring himself to read another line. His head ached from figures, from whispers, from Renly's honeyed ambitions that still clung to his ears.
Tundra stretched by the hearth, her silver coat glimmering in the firelight. She raised her head suddenly, ears twitching. A heartbeat later, Ned heard the knock.
"Enter," he called, his voice low.
The door opened to reveal Alaric Stark. His nephew looked every inch the lord he was, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in black and grey trimmed with dark blue, his direwolves, Tempest and Cinder, padding silently as shadows at his heel. Candlelight caught the streak of silver in Alaric's dark hair, a trick of fire, perhaps, or the weight of Winterfell pressing early on his brow.
"Uncle," Alaric said, inclining his head. "You're up late."
"As are you," Ned replied, studying him. "I thought you'd be long abed."
Alaric's mouth quirked into the shadow of a smile. "In a city of snakes, it is poor sport to sleep too soundly." He closed the door behind him and stepped forward, the two great beasts settling at his side.
For a time, neither spoke. The fire crackled, the wolves regarded one another with quiet intensity. Finally, Alaric broke the silence.
"I owe you an explanation, Ned."
Ned's brow furrowed. "About the brothel?"
"Aye." Alaric's tone was frank, without the edge it had carried that day. "I pressed too hard. It was deliberate. Baelish is a spider with less honesty than the eunuch, and I wanted him uncertain of us. Discord between Stark and Stark may keep his knife sheathed."
"You played a dangerous game," Ned said, steel in his voice. "One word wrongly taken and you cast doubt on Winterfell's unity. That is no small thing."
"And yet you mistrust him as well," Alaric countered, calm but sharp. "You are too seasoned not to. A man like Baelish thrives when he smells trust. Better he believe us divided, and careless, than bound so tight he dares not pry."
Ned sat back, considering. The boy, no, the man had his father's fire, yes, but the flame was tempered, controlled. Alaric had not lashed in temper, he had struck with design.
"You could have told me," Ned said.
Alaric's expression softened. "A lie told in tandem loses its teeth. It had to sting to be convincing."
The admission struck Ned harder than he expected. Brandon would have lashed without thought, without plan. Alaric wielded his temper like a sword.
He exhaled slowly. "You have your father's fire. But I see more of Father's steel in you as well. Cunning, deliberate."
Alaric inclined his head. "Then perhaps there is hope for me yet."
The two shared a quick laugh at the quip as they fell into a more comfortable posture.
The wolves shifted closer, Tundra rising to press her flank against Ned's knee, Tempest mirroring her at Alaric's left with Cinder taking his right flank. The symmetry was plain, and it soothed something old and raw in Ned's chest.
"We cannot let the vipers smell weakness," Ned said at last. "But nor can we let fire blind us. The North depends upon us keeping our wits."
"Then let us keep them together," Alaric answered.
Ned nodded once, firmly. "Together."
[The Small Council Chamber, the next day]
The council chamber was a den of false smiles and sharpened tongues. The great table gleamed with polished wood, but Ned thought it smelled faintly of rot all the same.
Varys was present in lavender silk, his powdered face unreadable. Baelish lounged in his chair, smirking like a cat with cream on its whiskers. Renly wore green and gold, all charm and honeyed laughter. Pycelle droned prayers and platitudes, his beard quivering with each breath.
Ned entered with Alaric at his side, Tempest and Cinder following close beside Tundra. The wolves drew a ripple of unease from the others. Renly hid his discomfort behind a jest. Baelish did not bother to hide his distaste.
"Ah, the North comes with teeth bared," Baelish said lightly, fingers drumming the table. "Shall we send for leashes, or will the kennel suffice?"
Alaric's voice was steel dipped in frost. "Say the word leash again, and I'll have my wolves show you what becomes of curs who yap too loud."
A hush fell over the chamber. Tempest growled low, lips peeled back from gleaming fangs, Cinder, the more calm of the two, simply stared into Baelish's eyes, less aggressive yet even more unnerving in effect..
Baelish froze, eyes flicking from Tempest's teeth to Cinder's cold stare. He chuckled then, thin and brittle, his gaze retracting from the wolves back to Alaric. "A jest, my lord, no more."
Varys's painted face shifted with something like amusement. Renly smirked, though unease lingered in his eyes. Pycelle sputtered, but no words of clarity came.
Ned let the silence stretch, then spoke, his tone level but edged. "We came to speak of debts, not petty disputes. Let us keep to matters of the realm."
The rest of the session dragged on with talk of coin and ships, but the balance of the room had shifted. The lions' allies looked less certain, their words less bold. Baelish glanced at Alaric only once more and quickly looked away.
When at last the council dismissed, Ned and Alaric stepped out into the corridor, wolves close behind.
"You baited him," Ned said quietly.
"Aye," Alaric admitted. "And he showed his throat."
Ned sighed. "One day you will bait the wrong man."
Alaric's mouth curved in a shadow of a smile. "And that day, I will bite before he does."
Ned shook his head, but a small bit of him could not help the sense of pride that stirred.
[The Battlements, later that night]
The Red Keep's walls loomed high above the city, the air cooler here, though still thick with the stink of smoke and river mud. Torches flickered along the ramparts, but much of the city lay in darkness, dotted with the glow of a thousand hearths.
Ned stood at the parapet, hands braced on cold stone. Tundra sat beside him, eyes sweeping the night. He thought of Winterfell, the clean bite of the air, the quiet hush of snow, the godswood whispering with leaves. Here, there was only heat and stone and the ever-present stench.
Footsteps approached, measured and steady. Alaric came to stand beside him, his two companions slipping into place at his flank.
For a time, they looked out in silence.
"Ugly, isn't it?" Alaric said at last.
Ned hummed. "Rot can wear gold, but it remains rot."
Alaric leaned on the parapet, gaze fixed on the sprawl below. "I think of her sometimes. Alys. How she'd loathe this place. She says Winterfell feels alive, every stone and tree watching. Here, all I feel are eyes waiting to judge or stab."
Ned glanced at him. The words were young, but the weight behind them was old.
"Catelyn felt the same," Ned said quietly. "She bore the South with dignity, but never love."
Alaric exhaled, slow. "Then let us see we both return north, uncle. Too many Starks have bled in this city already."
Ned's hand tightened on the stone. He thought of Brandon screaming in the throne room, strangled by his own noose while their father burned. He thought of Lyanna, her bed of blood.
"You are right," he said, voice low. "We must not feed them more wolves. Not you. Not me."
They stood together in the silence that followed, the direwolves mirroring their masters, lying down side by side.
Ned turned, at last, and rested a hand briefly on Alaric's shoulder. "Your father would have been proud. I am."
Alaric looked at him, eyes catching the torchlight. He did not speak, but he inclined his head, and the meaning was clear.
Above them, the night sky stretched wide, the stars distant but steady. For a moment, the city's stench and the court's venom seemed far away. There was only the chill of the stone, the presence of family, and the promise that wolves, together, could endure.
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Author's Note:
Hey guys, hope you liked the chapter. University classes will be starting back up soon and while for some that means less writing, for me that means I'll actually be able to settle into more of a routine, so I should be back to releasing multiple chapters a week like i have this past week.
If yall have any concerns or just wish to put in your two sense, please feel free to comment, i encourage yall's feedback!
Also, make sure to give me those glorious Stones!