"Arya!"
Jon Snow's heart clenched at the sight of his sister weeping uncontrollably. He forgot his wound, pressed his lips together, and, arms trembling, forced himself off the bed.
His injured leg quivered beneath him, pain sharp enough to draw a hiss.
Mondon Waters at first meant to steady him, then thought better, turned instead, and simply scooped the little girl from the doorway into Jon's arms.
He scratched his head once, gave Jon a look, and without a word shut the door behind him as he left.
"Brother, Bran… he fell from the watchtower, wuuh!"
Jon's heart lurched.
Impossible. Bran was nimble as a squirrel, climbing every wall of Winterfell without ever falling. Could it be…? Jon shook his head. No one in Winterfell would harm a Stark child.
So… was it truly an accident?
Tears streaked Jon's face before he knew it. He held himself firm. "Arya, tell me—how is Bran now?"
Jon's grip made her small shoulders ache, but she did not complain. Her eyes swam. "Father said… he still hasn't woken up. I overheard… so I came to find you…"
Jon pulled her tight, murmuring comfort. "Arya, Lady Catelyn will care for Bran. Trust me, he will be all right."
In the solar of the Hand, the air was heavy. Eddard Stark's stern features masked the sorrow beneath.
Gawen's eyes flicked, then turned toward Varys. "Lord Stark, do you need some rest?"
Varys added smoothly, "My lord Hand, for now they will keep quiet enough. You might leave the matters till tomorrow."
Ned only shook his head, silent.
Gawen and Varys exchanged a glance, then held their peace.
After a long while, Ned let out a slow breath. "Forgive me, I've kept you waiting."
At once Varys stepped forward, bowing. "My lord Hand, I stand ready to serve."
Ned inclined his head. "Garlan Tyrell's arm—there is no hope?"
Varys's tone was touched with regret. "None, my lord Hand."
He sighed. "The grief of Lord Mace cannot be soothed. A sorrow to us all."
Ned had just received word of Bran's fall and coma. In Lord Mace's grief he now felt a mirror of his own.
Frowning deeply, Ned asked suddenly, "And Renly?"
"Most are gathered at the Sept. Lord Renly is among them."
"…"
Gregor slain, Mace's son maimed. Ned's temper soured. The Master of Laws, Renly Baratheon, had not awaited the king's justice but joined the Tyrells in slaying Lord Tywin's bannerman in the street, worsening the rift.
And now Lord Tywin's second son lay wounded. Seven hells!
Ned's gaze sharpened. "Varys, Tyrion Lannister's injuries—was it truly accident?"
Varys folded his hands, shook his head. "Hundreds were there. Any could be the hand. Or none. Hard to prove."
Gawen said, "Lord Stark, when Tyrion wakes we will know better. If it was no accident, perhaps he saw his attacker."
"Then we wait…" Ned murmured. He turned back to Varys. "You have my thanks. Return for now. No—no more scheming from this rabble, not while I draw breath."
Varys bowed, moved to depart—then paused, turned back.
"My lord Hand, forgive me. I neglected something."
Ned's eyes fixed on him.
"Though Lord Petyr is but a councillor, his place on the council is weighty. He sits now in the black cells, and unrest spreads in the Red Keep. Rumors may grow poisonous with time."
Ned's brow darkened. "Can they not be silent for even a few days?"
Varys spread his hands. "The sooner it is dealt with, the better. Many Vale lords remain in the Keep. Since Lord Arryn's death they had turned to Littlefinger. Their doubts are natural… but if it festers, truth itself may sour into slander."
Ned thought a moment. "You are Master of Whisperers. You may speak to them directly…"
He broke off, eyes closing in pain. After a pause, he said, weary, "No. Not yet."
Varys hesitated. "You fear the effect upon—"
Ned cut him short with a wave. He knew the words to come, and it was not shame he feared.
Lysa Tully's crimes were unforgivable. He could not leave Jon Arryn's only heir in that woman's care. She must be brought to King's Landing for judgment.
"I will," Ned said firmly, "in the Hand's name, write to those Vale lords loyal to Jon. I need them to guard young Robert's safety."
Enlightenment touched Varys's face. "I see, my lord Hand. You may trust me to guard the secret."
They spoke further in detail, then Varys departed.
Gawen poured a cup of wine for Ned.
"My lord, I had not thought so much ill fortune would fall so swiftly."
"All at once…" Ned muttered, taking the cup, his broad back slumping against the chair. His boots found the tabletop. "Seven hells!"
Gawen allowed himself a small smile, pouring one for himself.
"Lord Stark, Tyrion's wounding is no small matter. You know Lord Tywin's way better than I."
Ned frowned. "Who will he blame?"
Gawen spread his hands. "Renly was present, aye. But I think his wrath will fall on Highgarden. The Mountain was their dog, but his death matters less than his master's son maimed. That is reason enough.
And forgive me, Lord Stark—reason is hard found with the Lannisters."
Later, Ned turned again to that weary tome, The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
The truth of Jon Arryn's death he had uncovered, yet another puzzle gnawed. Why had Jon, even in failing health, pursued the king's bastards himself?
He felt on the cusp of grasping it… then it slipped away. He shut the book. "A dull thing."
But idleness was poison. He longed to fly to Winterfell, to Bran's bedside.
Instead he looked again to the book, sighed, and rose.
The direwolf was not made to sit and sigh. Jon Arryn had chased Robert's bastards; so would he. If nothing came of it, then he would let the matter rest—perhaps it was only his fancy.
With Jory and his guard, he left the Red Keep.
On Iron Street, at Tobho Mott's forge, Ned was led to a youth named Gendry. At once he knew him for Robert's son—too like the king in his youth.
"This is Lord Stark, the King's new Hand," Tobho introduced.
Awkwardly, Gendry bowed.
Ned clapped a great hand upon the boy's strong arm. "A good lad. Only a few questions, and I'll be gone."
Gendry brushed sweat-damp hair from his brow and nodded.
"When Lord Arryn came to see you, what did he ask?"
Ned sat down, gesturing. "Sit, boy."
The lad obeyed. "M'lord, he only asked some things."
"What things?"
Gendry thought. "If I was well kept. If I liked my work. About my mother… who she was, what she looked like."
Ned inclined his head. "And your answer?"
"She died when I was little. I only remember her hair was yellow. She'd sing sometimes. She worked in a tavern."
Ned tousled his dark hair. "A good lad. Go on back to your work."
He watched the boy go, then turned to Tobho.
"You know who he is."
The smith's eyes were like steel. "He is my apprentice."
Ned's lips twitched in the faintest smile. "If ever he tires of hammer and tongs, and wants a blade in hand, send him to me. Till then—thank you for keeping him."
At Chataya's brothel, he found another.
The girl was too young—he dared not ask her age. She had pale red hair, freckles across her nose, and cradled an infant.
"What is her name?" he asked softly.
"Barra, m'lord. I named her Barra."
She smiled faintly. "Doesn't she look like him? She has his nose, his hair…"
"She does," Ned said quietly, stroking the baby's dark hair—fine, silky. Just like Robert's firstborn in the Vale.
The girl's eyes shone with pleading. "When you see him, m'lord—if you would—tell him how beautiful our Barra is."
"I will."
Hope bloomed in her face.
"Tell him I've never lain with another. I swear it by the gods. Chataya says I may stay half a year, care for the child, and see if he comes. Tell him I wait, please? I don't want gold or jewels. Only him. He was always kind to me, I swear it."
Kind to you… damn you, Robert.
"I'll tell him," Ned promised. "And I'll see Barra never wants for bread."
She smiled timidly through tears, sweet as any maiden, and Ned's heart ached like a wound. Damn you, Robert.
Back in the Tower of the Hand.
"Catch."
Syrio Forel tossed a wooden sword at Arya, eyes red from weeping.
She caught it easily. He grinned. "A sad girl."
She rubbed her eyes with a sleeve. "Syrio, I don't want to train today."
"Up!"
He barked, swinging at her head. She blocked hastily—crack! Wood met wood.
"Then all the more must you train. Down!"
His sword whistled. She countered again. Crack! Pain shot up her arm, but she gritted her teeth, silent.
"When you fight, there is no sorrow."
Anger flared. She would teach Syrio a lesson—with her wooden blade.
"Good, good. Now I attack!"
He pressed forward, each strike faster, and Arya stumbled back, parrying with effort.
"Left! Left! Up! Left! Right! Left! Down! Left!"
Clack, clack, clack! echoed in the room.
"Ahh!"
His sword struck her chest. She cried out.
Syrio stepped back, sword lowered. "You are dead."
Arya flushed hot. He had called "left" and struck "right," catching her unready.
"You cheated!" she snapped.
He slipped his sword to his belt with elegance. "So. Now you are a dead girl. The water dancer must see with more than ears. My mouth lies; my eyes, my hands, they spoke truth. You did not see."
Arya made a face. "But you lied!"
Syrio grinned. "Dead girl. Yes. My tongue lies. But truth was there, if you had the eyes to see. A water dancer must perceive."
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
📯 Lords and Ladies of the Realm, heed the call! 📯
The saga burns ever brighter—30 chapters ahead now await, available only to those who swear their loyalty on Patreon. 🐉❄️🔥
Walk among dragons, defy the cold, and stake your claim in a world where crowns are won with fire and fury.
🔗 Claim your place: www.patreon.com/DrManhattanEN
👤 Known on Patreon as: DrManhattanEN
Your loyalty feeds the flame. And fire remembers.