[King's Landing, The Red Keep, 10th Moon, 298AC]
The yard below Maegor's Holdfast rang with the hard rhythm of practice steel.
Alaric stood near the steps, cloak thrown back, gloves tucked into his belt. A week had passed since Robert rode south into the kingswood, laughing and loud, promising to return with a boar big enough to shame the cooks. In his absence, the Red Keep felt altered. Not quieter, never that, but watchful.
Ser Torrhen drilled the Winter Guard in tight formation. Shields overlapped. Lines advanced and withdrew on command. Ser Harald corrected footwork with blunt patience. Desmond Manderly barked at Smalljon for stepping out of rank.
Near the edge of the yard stood Ser Lucion Lannister.
He wore no crimson that morning, only plain steel with a dark cloak clasped at the shoulder. His hair, more honey than gold, was tied back. He held his helm under one arm, observing with calm focus.
Some of the southron knights still stared when they saw him among northern men. A Lannister knight sworn to a Stark. Stranger things had happened in war, fewer in peace.
Lucion noticed the looks and ignored them.
"Again," Alaric called.
The line reset, shields locked. The Winter Guard advanced in disciplined steps, halting as one.
Ser Torrhen broke away and came to Alaric's side. "More red cloaks in the lower wards."
"Stationary?" Alaric asked.
"Aye. Not a parol, they're watching."
Alaric nodded once.
He did not need to ask who they watched.
Before he could answer, a Greycloak rushed through the gate, breathless.
"My lord. Lord Hand requests you at once."
Alaric did not hesitate. "Maintain the yard," he told Torrhen. "Full arms within reach."
He turned to Lucion. "With me."
Lucion inclined his head without a word.
[The Hand's Solar]
Eddard Stark stood rigid behind his table when Alaric entered the Hand's solar. Varys hovered nearby, hands folded. Littlefinger leaned with lazy interest against the wall.
Ned did not soften the news.
"Catelyn has taken Tyrion Lannister prisoner."
The words hung in the air.
Alaric did not look surprised. "Where?"
"At the inn at the crossroads," Ned said. "She was traveling north. She saw him and seized him in my name."
Littlefinger's mouth twitched faintly. "Bold."
"And dangerous," Ned added.
"There is more," Varys said softly. "Riders from the riverlands arrived this morning. Ser Gregor Clegane has crossed the border with outriders. Villages have been burned, smallfolk slain. The banners are not raised, but the men are Lannister."
Tywin had answered quickly.
Alaric's jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "He means to provoke open response."
"He means to force it," Ned said.
"And Jaime?" Alaric asked.
As if summoned, a Lannister guard appeared at the doorway.
"Ser Jaime requests an audience with the Hand."
Alaric met Ned's eyes. "Not alone."
Ned hesitated only a moment before nodding.
They descended together.
Ned walked at the center. Alaric at his right. Ser Torrhen and Ser Harald flanked them. A dozen Winter Guard moved in tight formation around their lord. Desmond and Smalljon followed close.
Ser Lucion walked at Alaric's left, unhelmed, hand resting loosely near his sword.
They passed through the gates and into a narrow street where market stalls had begun to close early.
Jaime Lannister waited there, mounted, golden armor bright even in muted light. A score of red cloaks stood behind him, some mounted, some on foot.
The street thinned. Windows shuttered. The city knew trouble when it saw it.
Jaime's gaze fixed first on Ned.
"I hear my brother enjoys the hospitality of your lady wife," he called lightly.
"He is held for questioning," Ned replied. "Nothing more."
"For questioning?" Jaime's smile did not reach his eyes. "And who granted her that right?"
"She believes him guilty of hiring the would-be cutthroat who attacked Alys Stark" Ned said.
Jaime's jaw tightened faintly. "Then she is mistaken."
Alaric stepped half a pace forward, enough to shift the line.
Jaime's gaze slid to him.
"And you, Lord Stark," Jaime said. "Still at our Lord Hand's shoulder."
"Where I intend to remain," Alaric answered.
Only then did Jaime notice the man standing just to Alaric's left.
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Lucion."
Ser Lucion inclined his head, calm. "Ser Jaime."
A murmur moved through the Lannister men.
Jaime's tone cooled. "You wear no red today."
"I wear my oath," Lucion replied.
"You are of my blood."
"I am but a member of a branch of House Lannister," Lucion corrected evenly. "And I swore myself freely."
"To him?" Jaime's gaze flicked to Alaric.
"To Lord Alaric Stark," Lucion said without hesitation. "Before gods old and new."
Jaime studied him for a long second. "You would raise steel against your kin?"
"If they raise it first," Lucion answered. "My oath stands."
Silence settled heavily in the narrow street.
Jaime looked back at Ned. "Return my brother."
"He will answer for what he has done," Ned said. "Before lawful judgment."
Jaime's hand rested lightly on his sword hilt. "You mistake me for patient."
Behind Alaric, shields shifted slightly.
Jaime saw it.
"You brought a wall," he observed.
"I brought discipline, something your redcloaks seem to lack all too often," Alaric said.
One of Jaime's outriders edged forward, horse stamping against the cobbles.
"Careful," Alaric said quietly.
Jaime drew his sword anyway.
The sound of steel leaving its scabbard seemed to echo off the stone.
"Shields," Alaric commanded.
The Winter Guard locked formation instantly.
The first clash came when a Lannister rider surged forward, blade arcing downward toward the shield line. His strike glanced off hardened oak and iron rim. In the same breath, Smalljon seized his leg and dragged him from the saddle.
The street exploded into motion.
Lannister men attempted to break the formation with speed and weight, but the narrow lane worked against them. Horses pressed awkwardly against locked shields. Steel rang in short, brutal exchanges.
Ser Lucion stepped into the fray without flourish, cutting cleanly at a red-cloaked man-at-arms who attempted to flank the right. His movements were efficient, controlled. He did not shout. He did not hesitate.
Jaime pressed forward personally, carving a path through his own men with startling precision. His blade moved fast, probing, testing, seeking weakness.
Alaric stepped into his path, Ice free from its scabbard.
Their swords met with a hard crack.
Jaime's first thrust was sharp and direct. Alaric turned it aside and answered with a short, driving cut meant to force distance. Jaime pivoted cleanly, sliding along the edge of the formation, searching for a gap.
There was none.
Behind Alaric, the Winter Guard held firm.
Jaime pressed again, two quick strikes in succession, forcing Alaric to give half a step. The sound of steel was tight and close, not theatrical, but controlled, deadly.
"You shield well," Jaime said under his breath.
"You test well," Alaric answered.
A Lannister man lunged toward Ned's side.
Ser Lucion intercepted him, blade flashing. The man fell hard against the stones.
Jaime saw it.
His eyes returned briefly to Lucion. "You choose this?"
"I did," Lucion replied, not breaking stance.
Jaime's expression shifted, not anger exactly, but recognition.
He drove forward once more, faster this time, aiming to slip inside Alaric's guard. Alaric adjusted, catching the blade on the flat side of Ice, thrusting upward and forcing Jaime's arm wide. Lannister quickly regrouped and swung his blade, their hilts locked for a breath.
Jaime was quick. But the line behind Alaric did not waver.
Torrhen slammed a shield into a Lannister trying to circle. Harald's blade drove another back.
Jaime disengaged cleanly, stepping away with controlled retreat.
He surveyed the street, ten of his men lay dead or dying, more wounded. Stark and his northern guard unbroken, Ned untouched, his own valyrian blade, Red Rain, soaked in blood.
The King was absent, and yet, witnesses watched from every window.
Jaime weighed the situation, uncertain of whether to continue or pull back.
Then he lowered his blade.
"Enough," he called sharply.
His men faltered, then withdrew, dragging the wounded with them.
Jaime wiped his sword once and sheathed it.
"This is not done," he said, eyes on Ned.
"No," Alaric replied evenly.
Jaime's gaze shifted once more to Lucion.
"You may find your new brothers less forgiving than blood," Jaime said.
Lucion did not look away. "Blood binds birth. Oath binds honor."
For a heartbeat, something like respect flickered in Jaime's expression.
Then he turned his horse and rode, red cloaks falling in behind him.
The street emptied slowly.
A dozen red cloaks lay dead. One Winter Guard bled from a deep cut to the thigh but lived. Ned stood uninjured.
That mattered.
[Later that day]
By evening, the Red Keep hummed with rumor.
More riders from the riverlands arrived before dusk. Gregor Clegane had not slowed. Farms had been burned. Smallfolk slain or scattered. No formal declaration, just devastation.
Tywin Lannister had chosen terror as an answer.
In his chambers, Alaric dismissed all but Torrhen, Harald, and Lucion.
"This will not end in the streets alone," Torrhen said.
"No," Alaric agreed.
He moved to the writing table.
To Alys, Tyrion Lannister has been seized and taken into the Vale. Lord Tywin has responded with fire and carnage in the riverlands. Jaime drew steel in King's Landing. Call the banners quietly, do not march yet, but have them ready.
He sealed the parchment in wax.
"Quietly send a raven, one of our own, not from the rookery of the Red Keep," he ordered.
The messenger departed within minutes.
Silence settled in the chamber.
"You believe war is coming," Harald said.
Alaric looked toward the darkening city beyond the window.
"It already has," he said. "We are merely in the beginning stages."
Ser Lucion stood quietly beside him, gaze steady, oath unbroken.
And somewhere in the Kingswood, Robert hunted, unaware that the realm had begun to fracture in his absence.
[The Next Day]
The reports did not cease.
They came at dusk first, carried by a rider whose horse was lathered white and trembling beneath him. By the next morning, there were two more, mud-streaked and hollow-eyed, each bearing the same tale in different words. The riverlands were burning.
Alaric stood beside the long table in the Tower of the Hand as the third man finished speaking. The rider's voice was hoarse from smoke and fear.
"They came at night, m'lord. Ser Gregor at their head. Took the grain, the cattle. Those who ran were cut down. Those who stayed…" The man swallowed. "They made examples."
Ned's face did not change, but the lines around his mouth deepened.
"Where?" he asked quietly.
"Near the Mummer's Ford first. Then west of the Trident. Villages too small to have walls. They rode hard and fast, my lord. No banners flying."
No banners. That was the most telling part.
Alaric folded his hands behind his back. "But you knew who led them."
"Aye. No mistaking him."
There was no need to say the name. Everyone in the room knew it already.
When the rider was dismissed and fed, silence settled heavily in the chamber. Outside the narrow windows, the city murmured, ignorant of the fire spreading upriver.
Ned turned to the small council table, though only Alaric and Ser Torrhen remained.
"This is retaliation," Ned said. "For Tyrion."
"For the insult to House Lannister," Alaric replied. "And to test the crown."
Ned's eyes lifted. "Test?"
"If the king answers swiftly, it is justice," Alaric said. "If he does not, it is permission."
Ser Torrhen shifted beside the door but did not speak.
Ned moved to the window, hands clasped behind him in a mirror of Alaric's own stance. "The king is hunting."
"And Tywin is not," Alaric answered.
The truth of it hung between them.
By midday, ravens had confirmed what the riders had begun. Smaller keeps sent pleas for aid. One maester wrote that fields were salted, that wells had been fouled. Another named Ser Gregor plainly and accused the Lannisters of open war in all but name.
The small council convened before noon.
Lord Petyr spoke first, as he so often did. "These are troubling claims, certainly. But brigands are common in unsettled times. It would be… premature… to lay this at Lord Tywin's feet without proof."
"Brigands do not command armored knights," Ned said, his voice level. "Nor do they move in companies."
Pycelle stroked his beard. "Ser Gregor Clegane is sworn to Casterly Rock, to be sure. Yet I would caution haste. Lord Tywin is a proud man. Accusation may drive him to open defiance."
"He has already chosen defiance," Alaric said.
All eyes turned briefly toward him.
"Villages burn while we debate wording," he continued. "If the Hand does not act, the riverlords will."
Renly leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. "And what would you have us do, Lord Stark? March west?"
Ned did not hesitate. "I will send a royal command. Ser Gregor Clegane is to present himself and answer for these crimes. If he refuses, he will be declared an outlaw and attainted. We will dispatch men under the king's banner to bring him to justice."
Pycelle opened his mouth to object, then thought better of it.
Littlefinger only smiled faintly.
The council dispersed with the matter decided. Ravens were set with parchment. Seals pressed into wax.
By late afternoon, Ned called Alaric back to his chambers.
"I will send Beric Dondarrion to carry the king's justice," Ned said. "He is young, but honorable. He will ride with Thoros of Myr and a company of men loyal to the crown."
Alaric nodded once. "It must be done swiftly."
"I will not allow the riverlands to bleed for Catelyn's choice," Ned said. There was no accusation in the words, only weariness.
Alaric considered his next words carefully. "Justice must be seen. But justice must also be strong."
Ned studied him.
"I will add men of my own," Alaric continued. "Greycloaks, although no knights, they shall be hard riders. They will bolster the force and report what they see."
Ned frowned slightly. "This is the crown's command."
"And they will ride under it," Alaric said evenly. "Not as northern banners. As men sworn to uphold the peace. If Ser Gregor is truly acting without sanction, they will help bring him in. If this runs deeper…" He let the sentence fade.
Ned understood what he did not say.
After a long pause, he inclined his head. "Choose them well."
"I will."
That evening, Alaric stood in the yard below the Hand's tower and looked over the men he had selected. No bright cloaks. No heraldry. Mail worn from use, not polished for display. Riders who had known winter roads and long watches.
"You ride at dawn," he told them. "You ride under royal command. You obey Lord Beric as you would me."
They answered as one.
"You are not there to win glory," Alaric continued. "You are there to witness and to bring back truth. If the Mountain yields, you bind him. If he resists, you survive."
A few grim smiles passed between them at that.
Ser Torrhen stood at his shoulder. "You think this will end cleanly?" he asked quietly once the men dispersed.
"No," Alaric said.
Above them, the Red Keep rose in pale stone against the fading light. Somewhere beyond the walls, the king drank and hunted, unaware that the realm was beginning to fracture beneath him.
"Tywin did not send Gregor for cattle," Alaric went on. "He sent him to draw blood. To force a response."
"And we have given one."
"Aye."
Alaric watched as the last of the Greycloaks led their horses toward the stables. A lawful answer had been given to lawless violence. It was the right move.
But right did not mean safe.
War had not yet been declared. No banners had been raised in open rebellion. The city still bustled. The court still feasted.
Yet in the riverlands, villages smoldered.
And now the crown had ridden out to meet the fire.