Seated high upon the Iron Throne, Eddard Stark spoke gravely:
"Lord Tyrell, I will send men to investigate thoroughly and give you a just answer. Until then, I ask that you act with caution."
Mace Tyrell gave no reply. He made a small gesture, and soon another group of peasants—men, women, and children, ragged and bloodstained—entered behind a young knight.
"These folk reached King's Landing only last night," Mace said slowly, though all present heard the anger beneath his measured tone. "They are the last survivors of two villages on our borders."
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Varys cried in horror, "Oh, dreadful! Such cruelty!"
Mace pressed on, his voice heavy: "Lord Stark, still more of the Reach will suffer. Does this look like mere brigandage? My people bleed each day."
"Blood for blood!"
"Vengeance without end!"
…
His words roused the Reach lords. Voices rang out in heated support.
Eddard raised a hand, calling for silence, then turned to the shaken villagers.
"Were the raiders the same men as before?"
The older knight nodded, spoke with the peasants, and at length declared:
"My lord Hand, they too wore masks, well-armed and riding warhorses."
The younger knight shouted in fury: "They were Lannisters! I tracked them myself—saw them flee into the Westerlands. They are Lord Tywin's dogs!"
Grand Maester Pycelle croaked stiffly, "Young knight, remember yourself. Lord Tywin is father to our queen."
The knight's face flushed red, but before he could speak, Mace's voice cut across the hall:
"Pycelle, we need no reminder. We know well enough who fathered the queen."
…
Gawen Crabb spoke then, calm and steady:
"Lord Mace, the gods know your sorrow. Yet as lord of the Reach, you must see this for what it is—a chance. All men know Lord Stark's honor. If your case is just, Casterly Rock will stand isolated."
He added, "And should fortune favor, the golden rose may become the first among the great houses."
Mace stroked his beard, then fixed Pycelle with a hard gaze. The golden rose fears not the golden lion.
From the throne, Ned Stark noted a man slipping quietly from the hall. So the rat flees… or rather, the mouse who gorged too well on the queen's cheese.
He had uncovered Jon Arryn's killers; now came time to rid the Red Keep of vermin. But first, justice must be served.
…
"Lord Tyrell, give the word! I'll muster my banners at once—let the Westerlands taste the Reach's steel!"
"Aye, let the cowards of the West feel our wrath!"
"One man of the Reach is worth five of theirs!"
The hall clamored—until Mace snapped, "Silence!"
At once, the voices died.
Mace turned toward the throne. "Lord Hand, until the king returns, the Reach will confine itself to its own borders. We shall pursue raiders within our lands, but no farther. I will restrain my bannermen."
Ned's grey eyes flickered. He inclined his head. "Your wisdom does you honor, Lord of Highgarden."
Today, the direwolf looked upon the oft-scorned lord of the Reach with new respect.
He thought of Tywin Lannister—not a lion, but a fox. If indeed the Mountain's men rode, Tywin would have ordered them cloaked as brigands, their banners hidden. Were the Reach to retaliate in kind, Tywin and Cersei could claim the Tyrells had broken the peace. And Robert… gods only knew whom he would believe.
Clearly, Mace had seen as much. Hence the pleas brought here, before the Iron Throne.
…
Grand Maester Pycelle rose again, bowing low.
"My lord Hand, if these villagers truly believe the culprits were Gregor's men, let them take their grievances to Lord Tywin. It is no matter for the crown."
Ned's voice rang cold: "Pycelle, it is very much the crown's concern. North, South, East, or West, all fall beneath King Robert's rule."
The old maester shifted uneasily. "If so, then should we not wait until His Grace returns?"
"No," Ned cut him off. "The king hunts. Delay will only breed worse crimes. Robert named me Hand, to hear with his ears and speak with his voice. I will do my duty."
He paused. "Yet I will report today's matters to him. Ser Robar Royce."
The knight stepped forth and bowed. "My lord Hand."
"Your father hunts with the king. Ride to them at once, and carry word of what has passed."
"Gladly, my lord." Ser Robar departed.
The young Reach knight strode forward. "My lord Hand, then may we not at least strike back at Gregor's men?"
"Vengeance?" Ned's voice was iron. "We speak of justice. Burn and murder in the Westerlands will not restore peace—only soothe your pride."
The knight bit his tongue beneath Stark's gaze.
Ned turned to the peasants. "People of the Reach, I cannot restore your homes, nor the lives of your kin. But in the king's name, I can grant you justice."
"They wore masks, hid their banners—so they hide a foul purpose."
Slowly, Ned rose from the Iron Throne. Every eye in the hall followed.
"Lord Beric Dondarrion. Ser Gladden Wylde."
The two knights stepped forward, bowing.
"Take fifty riders. I will add twenty of my own guard. Ride to the Reach, find the truth of these raids. Lord Beric, you have command. Work with Lord Tyrell's men. Find who these brigands truly are."
The young lord with the red-gold hair bowed deeply. "By your command, Lord Hand."
Ned's grey gaze swept the hall. His voice rang like a sword's edge:
"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of House Stark, Hand of the King, command you to bear the king's banners, ride to the Reach, and bring these murderers and arsonists to justice—dead or alive. May the gods have mercy on their souls."
Then he seated himself once more. "The petitions are ended."
…
Descending the steps, Ned was met by Varys, all smiles.
"My lord Hand, you are far bolder than I."
Ned cut him short. "Say what you mean."
Varys lowered his voice. "Had it been me, I would have named Ser Ilyn. He is, after all, the King's Justice. To pass him over… some may call it insult."
Ned frowned. "No slight was meant."
"But the Paynes are sworn to Lannister service," he added. "I would not trust them with this charge. The Reach believes the raiders were Gregor's men."
Varys bobbed his head. "Prudent, yes… though…" He cast a furtive glance around. "Ser Ilyn was watching from the back. His pale eyes never left us. I fear he was not pleased."
Ned's brows knit, but he said nothing.
…
Outside the throne room.
"Jon, I hear your leg still pains you," Gawen Crabb said, tilting his head at the boy's limp. "And yet you refuse to rest. Do you wish to be known as the Limping Bastard? It has a fine ring to it. Bravery worth praise."
Jon Snow flushed with anger, but bit it back.
It was not the difference of rank. Northerners settled matters with steel, high or low. But he had crossed blades with Gawen too many times in the Hand's yard. The young lord had nearly haunted his boyhood with constant challenges.
Mondon Waters chuckled quietly at Jon's scowl.
Jon reddened further, until at last he blurted, "My lord, I serve to protect Lord Stark."
"With a limp?" Gawen raised a brow. "Following behind on a crutch? The lords of court will sing your loyalty."
"I…" Jon faltered, words failing him. He knew the kindness beneath the barb, but still his pride smarted.
"Lord Crabb."
A soft, melodious voice broke in. Gawen turned, and bowed. "Good day, Lady Margaery."
She smiled sweetly, though her face was pale, her grey gown plain but for the golden rose upon her breast.
Her eyes swept Jon and Mondon; she inclined her head.
Jon dropped his gaze and bowed. Mondon scratched his head with a sheepish grin.
"Will you walk with me?" she asked.
"It would be an honor," Gawen replied, offering his hand.
…
They walked in silence. Gawen felt the weight of her sorrow.
At last he said, "In my lands there is an old soldier. He lost his right arm before I was born, yet fought on for years with the left. After we reclaimed our hold, I made him master-at-arms for the young recruits."
Margaery halted. "My lord… you mean…"
Gawen nodded gently. "He trains every left-handed boy. Believe me, his skill is unmatched. If you wish, I can arrange for Ser Garlan to meet him."
Their eyes met. She lowered hers, walked on.
After a pause, she whispered, "Thank you, Lord Crabb. Since his injury, my brother's spirit has sunk lower than I've ever seen. Garlan was always our pride… the Brave Garlan. To see him so broken… it breaks my heart anew each day."
Gawen said softly, "Warriors are never truly broken. Give him time. You will see your Brave Garlan again."
She smiled faintly. "You are thoughtful, Lord Crabb. I will hold to that hope."
.
.
.
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