The streets of King's Landing were loud that night. Smoke still hung over the city, the smell of burnt wood and spilt ale mixing with sweat and torch smoke. The war was over, or so the men said, and the soldiers who'd survived it were intent on forgetting it for a while.
In a tavern near the Street of Silk, the sound of laughter rolled through the open windows. Northern men packed the benches, shaggy-haired, broad-shouldered, their heavy voices filling the air like thunder.
Greatjon Umber sat in the middle of it all, one hand wrapped around a tankard big enough to drown a smaller man in. His laugh shook the table, loud and raw. "Aye, that's it!" He boomed, slamming his palm down hard enough to make the cups jump. "Told the bugger, didn't I? 'Swing that sword at me again and I'll feed it to ye arse first!'"
The men around him roared with laughter. Galbart Glover chuckled through a mouthful of bread. "You'd've done it too."
"Seven hells, I near did!" Greatjon said, wiping foam from his beard. "Southron fools think steel makes a man brave. In the North, we drink courage with our mother's milk!"
"Aye!" Several shouted back, lifting their cups.
The noise was pure life: soldiers shouting, whores laughing, someone playing a harp off-key in the corner. The war felt far away here, buried under drink and heat.
Then the door creaked open.
A young man in half-polished armour stepped in, his face pale, sweat streaking the dirt on his brow. He hesitated before speaking, voice rough with nerves. "My lords," he said, "there's talk in the streets."
The laughter dipped, just a little. The Greatjon looked up, his grin fading. "Talk o' what, boy?"
The soldier swallowed. "They're sayin' Lord Stark's been killed. In the Red Keep."
The words hung there.
Someone snorted from the next table. "Aye, and next you'll tell us the Wall's melted."
A few chuckled, but it was weak laughter this time. The boy didn't smile. "It's true, or near enough to it. Folk are sayin' there was a fight. Lord Robert and him. Some say Robert struck him down."
Galbart frowned. "Who told you this?"
"A guard, ser. One o' the Lannisters' men. Says the gates're closin', orders from the Keep. No one's to go up till mornin'."
The noise in the tavern thinned. Somewhere outside, a dog barked.
The Greatjon's eyes narrowed. "Say that again, lad."
"They're sayin'—"
"I heard ye." Greatjon leaned back in his chair, tankard forgotten. His voice dropped low, heavy as stone. "And you believe it?"
The soldier's gaze dropped. "Don't know what to believe, m'lord. But folk're whisperin' all over the city. Word's out."
A long silence followed.
Galbart shook his head slowly. "No. Robert and Lord Stark fought side by side, were bloody raised together under Jon Arryn. Half the realm's graves are proof of it."
Maege Mormont, sitting near the door, spat on the floor. "And yet blood still spills easy in King's Landing."
Another man muttered, "Could be naught but Lannister lies. They've tongues like vipers."
"Aye," the Greatjon said, pushing himself up to stand. His great frame filled the room, the light from the hearth glinting off the sweat on his skin. "Aye, and maybe that's all it is. But if it's true…"
He let the words hang there.
The younger men watched him, uneasy. "If it's true?" One asked quietly.
The Greatjon's eyes hardened. His northern burr thickened until every word came out rough and deep. "If it's true, then the stag's got a reckoning comin'. Robert bloody Baratheon or no, he'll answer for it." He looked around the room, voice rising. "Eddard Stark was Warden o' the North. Our liege, our lord, our blood by oath. Earned my respect in this war, even if he were raised in South. If he's dead by that man's hand, then I'll see justice done."
Galbart rose too, slower. "Let's not spill more blood on whispers, Jon."
"Aye," Greatjon said, snatching his cloak from the bench. "That's why we're goin' to see it with our own eyes." He looked around at the gathered men. "Every one o' you who's loyal to Winterfell, you come with me. We'll get the truth from the Red Keep itself."
A murmur rolled through the tavern. Men stood, pushing back chairs, grabbing swords and cloaks. Outside, the street noise was still loud, laughter, music, the smell of wine and fire, but it felt distant now, muted.
Galbart followed him out, adjusting his belt. "You really think there's truth to it?"
The Greatjon didn't look back. "No," he said. "But I'll not sleep till I'm sure."
As they stepped into the street, more men joined them, northern soldiers drawn by the sound of boots and low voices. They weren't the only ones. Across the way, a knot of Riverland knights emerged from another tavern, and a few Vale lords came from the brothel opposite, still half-dressed but alert. The rumour had reached them too.
"Gods," one Stormlander said as they fell in beside the group. "It can't be true. Robert'd never raise a hand to Stark."
Galbart's reply was quiet. "Pray you're right."
The Greatjon's laugh was rough, without humour. "Aye. Pray hard."
They moved together through the narrow streets, a growing crowd of lords and men-at-arms, their boots striking the cobbles in rhythm. The air felt different now, the joy gone, the heat of suspicion rising like smoke from the ruins. When they reached the first view of the Red Keep, torches burned along the gates, and the sight made several of the men slow their pace. The gates stood shut. Lannister guards lined the walls.
The Greatjon stared at them, jaw tightening. "Shut gates, is it?" He said. "A fine welcome for the men who won the bloody war."
No one answered.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled. The sound rolled through the night air, long and hollow.
The Greatjon's hand tightened on his sword belt. "Let's find out what's true, then," he said quietly, and started up the hill toward the Keep.
The others followed, their footsteps steady, their faces grim.
Behind them, the laughter of the city faded, swallowed by the weight of the rumour spreading through the streets.
-X-
The night air outside the Red Keep was thick with heat and noise. The torches along the walls threw long shadows across the cobblestones, painting the gathered crowd of lords and soldiers in gold and red.
The Greatjon stood at the front, broad as a bear, his sword-belt slung low on his hip and his beard glistening with sweat. Behind him, dozens of northern lords, Mormonts, Glovers, Cerwyns, Tallharts, filled the courtyard below the gate. More men spilt into the street, carrying torches and half-drunken courage.
The Lannister guards stood along the wall above, spears braced, crossbows ready. Their crimson cloaks swayed in the night breeze.
Then the gate doors creaked open just enough for a rider to emerge, Damon Marbrand in full armour, his helm under one arm, his expression cold and disciplined.
"By order of King Robert Baratheon," he called out, voice steady over the crowd, "the Red Keep is sealed. No man is to enter until the morning."
A murmur rolled through the assembled lords.
The Greatjon barked a laugh, deep and booming. "King, is it? I don't recall namin' him such. Nor bendin' knee to a stag sittin' a dragon's chair."
The laughter that followed was hard and sharp.
Marbrand didn't flinch. "You will show respect to your future king," he said. "Lord Stark's death was a tragedy, but there will be order tonight."
The noise swelled. Voices shouted over one another.
"So he's dead then?"
"By whose hand?"
"Show us the body!"
Galbart Glover's voice cut through the din. "You say tragedy, ser, but you don't deny he's dead!"
Marbrand's jaw tightened. "I said what I meant. Now stand down. The king's orders are clear."
"The king's orders?" The Greatjon roared. "You hear that, lads? Seems we've all got a king now and weren't even told!"
Laughter and shouts rose behind him.
The Greatjon stepped forward, his boots grinding against the cobbles. "You tell yer so-called king," he said, voice rough and thick with his northern burr, "that the North don't bow to a man who slays his own brothers-in-arms. Not while there's breath in our bodies."
Marbrand's voice was colder now. "Take one more step, Lord Umber, and you'll answer for it."
"Answer?" The Greatjon spat on the ground. "Fuck yer king, and fuck yer answers. Open them gates before I decide to carve my own way in."
The guards above shifted uneasily. A few raised their crossbows higher.
Marbrand held his ground. "To defy the king's command is treason."
The word treason cut through the noise like steel through cloth. For a moment, the lords fell silent. Even the torches seemed to flicker lower.
Then the Greatjon laughed, loud and wild. "Treason? From me?" He slapped a hand to his chest. "You've not seen treason yet, southron cunt. You'll know it when I start swingin'!" He turned slightly, gesturing at his men. "You hear that, lads? They call us traitors now, after all the blood we spilt winning this fucking war!"
A roar rose behind him, steel flashing as swords were drawn and shields lifted. The sound rolled across the courtyard like thunder.
Marbrand drew his own sword, voice raised. "Stand down, or you will be cut down where you stand!"
The Greatjon leaned forward, grinning through his beard. "Stand down? The day a Lannister gives me orders'll be the day the Wall melts! Open them gates, or I'll paint 'em red with yer blood!"
Behind him, the northern lords shouted agreement.
"Open the gates!"
"Show us Stark!"
"We'll have the truth!"
The Riverland and Vale lords watched uneasily. Some shouted for calm, others simply backed away. A few of the Stormlanders murmured to one another, glancing at the walls where the Lannister crossbows waited. But many were shouting and demanding, half drunken stupor, and others were not even fully aware or able to hear what was happening, just swept up in the motions.
Marbrand raised his sword higher. "No one enters the Keep! By the king's command!"
The Greatjon's eyes gleamed in the torchlight. "Then tell yer king I'll send him his own bloody head for a crown!"
Marbrand's eyes narrowed, and a few nervously shifted at his proclamation.
The Greatjon took another step forward. "Aye, you heard me! Won't be hard, neither. The dragon near did it for us at the Trident. Guess the stag ain't so hard to kill after all!"
That broke whatever restraint remained. Shouts filled the air. Some men cheered, others cursed. The Riverlanders and Vale knights who hadn't caught every word drew their blades, thinking the fight had begun.
From behind the gate, iron bolts groaned.
The Greatjon raised his sword high, laughing. "There! The bastards are openin' up for us!"
The gates creaked wider, the sound slow and grinding. The gathered lords pushed forward, some out of fury, others out of confusion. Then the doors fully parted, and standing just beyond was Kevan Lannister, helm under his arm, flanked by two full ranks of gold-clad soldiers.
His voice carried clearly and even. "By order of King Robert Baratheon, all nobles who resist the king's peace shall be arrested and detained. Lay down your arms or be declared traitors to the realm."
The Greatjon's grin returned, fierce and savage. "Traitors, is it? Then I'll show you how traitors fight." He spat, drew his greatsword, and roared, "I've always wondered if Lannisters shit gold! Time we found out!"
The roar from the northern lords drowned out everything. They surged forward behind him, swords flashing in the torchlight, shields slamming together. The ground shook beneath their charge as they stormed toward the open gates. Confusion rippled through the ranks, Vale and Riverland men shouting, some joining the rush without knowing why, others trying to pull back. Horses neighed, men yelled orders that no one heard.
The first clash came with the sound of steel on steel, loud and bright, echoing off the Red Keep's stone walls.
The Greatjon's laughter rose above the chaos, wild, terrible, alive. "For the North!" He roared.
And then the courtyard became fire and fury, the night splitting open with the sound of war reborn.
-X-
Jon Arryn moved through the Red Keep at a near run. The sound of his boots rang against the stone, echoing through corridors lit by flickering torchlight. Guards rushed past him in both directions, men bearing the lion of Lannister on their chests, weapons drawn, voices raised.
He grabbed one by the arm as he passed. "What's happening?"
The soldier looked startled, stammering, "Orders, my lord. There's, there's fighting at the gates."
"Fighting?"
But the man tore free and kept moving.
Jon pressed on. The air was thick with tension, the kind that settles before something worse. From somewhere distant came the sound of shouting, steel clashing against steel. The Red Keep itself felt alive, trembling faintly beneath the weight of chaos outside. He turned down a narrow hall toward the council chambers. The door was open, guards flanking it. Inside, torchlight glinted on polished metal.
Tywin Lannister stood in the centre of the room. He was half-armoured already, the plates of gold and steel fitted perfectly, the crimson cloak draped over his shoulders. A squire knelt, fastening the last of the clasps. Tywin's face was calm, unreadable.
Jon stepped into the room, voice sharp. "Tywin!"
Tywin didn't turn immediately. He dismissed the squire with a flick of his hand and fastened his gauntlet. Only when he was finished did he look up. "Lord Arryn."
Jon strode forward, anger plain in his voice. "What is happening? I've just come from the lower halls; the Keep's alive with soldiers. I heard there's fighting at the gates. Tell me it isn't true."
Tywin's tone was mild. "It's true."
Jon stopped short. "Then tell me why. Why are your men marching? Why is there fighting in the streets when the war is over?"
Tywin picked up his sword belt and buckled it with slow precision. "We're securing the Keep. Certain lords refused the king's command to withdraw. Their arrest is being carried out as we speak."
Jon let out a short, incredulous laugh. "The king's command? Robert is in no frame of mind to command anything.I left him not an hour ago, and he could barely stand. Let alone issue this order."
Tywin met his gaze without blinking. "The orders were issued in his name. That's all that matters."
"His name?" Jon said. "You mean yours."
Tywin tilted his head slightly. "You seem confused, Lord Arryn. The crown cannot be left vulnerable to unrest. The northern lords and a number of river and vale lords refused an order. They'll be detained until the king can see reason restored."
Jon's hands clenched at his sides. "This is madness. Do you even hear yourself? You're arresting the very men who won the war. For what? For asking to see their dead lord's body?"
Tywin's expression didn't change. "For disobeying the throne."
Jon barked a bitter laugh. "The throne? Robert hasn't even sat it yet."
"It's only a matter of time," Tywin replied evenly. "When he does, he'll need peace. I intend to give it to him."
Jon stepped closer. "You think he'll thank you for this? For turning his allies into enemies before he's even crowned?"
"He'll thank me for keeping his city from burning," Tywin said.
Jon's voice rose, sharp and furious. "You're the one setting the fires! You and your men. You've turned victory into butchery and call it order."
Tywin regarded him as though studying a problem. "If order is butchery, then perhaps this realm needs a butcher."
Jon stared at him, speechless for a moment. "You don't know what you're doing."
"I know precisely what I'm doing."
Tywin turned slightly, picking up his sword and fastening it to his belt. "The lords outside were warned. They chose to ignore the king's peace. My men will see that peace restored."
Jon's voice dropped low. "You mean to break them."
Tywin glanced over, faintly amused. "Only if they make it necessary."
Jon stepped forward again, his anger boiling. "You'll tear this realm apart before Robert ever wears a crown. The North will never forgive this. The Riverlands won't either. Do you understand what you're inviting?"
Tywin's answer came without hesitation. "Unity. The kind forged by strength, not sentiment."
Jon's laugh was sharp, bitter. "You think you can force unity through fear? You'll only breed rebellion."
Tywin shrugged lightly. "Then rebellion will be answered."
Jon took another step forward, his eyes burning. "I'm telling you to stop this. Withdraw your men. End it now before there's no going back."
Tywin turned to face him fully, his face unreadable. "I've already given my word. The king's will stands."
Jon's temper snapped. "Robert has no will left! You've seen him, Tywin. He's half mad with grief! He doesn't even know what day it is!"
Tywin's voice stayed perfectly calm. "And that is precisely why someone must act in his stead."
Jon stared at him, breathing hard. "Someone? You mean you. That's what this is, isn't it? Your crown, not his."
Tywin didn't reply. He simply adjusted his gauntlet and reached for his helm resting on the table.
Jon moved forward quickly, anger surging, and stopped dead.
From the shadow behind Tywin stepped a mountain of a man, silent and terrible. Gregor Clegane filled the doorway, helm under one arm, his other hand resting casually on the hilt of his greatsword. His eyes, dark and flat, met Jon's without expression.
The space between them suddenly felt smaller.
Jon's breath came faster, but he didn't move. The Mountain took a slow step forward, blocking the path. His size made the hall seem to shrink.
Tywin's voice broke the silence, calm and almost polite. "Go back to your chambers, Lord Arryn. The matter is in hand."
Jon's voice was low, shaking with anger. "This isn't order, Tywin. It's madness."
Tywin's eyes met his. "It's rule."
He turned and walked past the Mountain toward the door, his crimson cloak trailing behind him, the light from the torches gleaming across the gold of his armour.
Jon didn't follow. He stood rooted in place, the sound of clashing steel echoing faintly from outside.
Tywin disappeared through the doorway, and the Mountain followed, leaving Jon alone in the flickering light, staring after them as the Red Keep trembled with the sound of chaos.