Darry Town and its surrounding lands lay quiet and unadorned on the southern bank of the Trident, no more than half a day's ride from the river itself. The lands were modest—neither wealthy nor strategic enough to draw envy—yet the weight of history hung thick in the air. House Darry had fought beneath the banner of the true dragon at the Trident. They had bled for the prince Robert Baratheon slew. That memory had not faded, not for the Darrys nor for Robert.
Now the royal entourage had descended uninvited upon Darry Castle, forcing Ser Raymund Darry into the reluctant role of host. The small keep was suddenly packed with the King's retinue, Stark men, Lannister red cloaks, and Darry retainers—three parties who shared little trust and even less love. Every corridor felt tighter for it, every whispered conversation sharper, every footstep heavier.
Queen Cersei had worsened the atmosphere the moment they arrived. She demanded that the banks of the Trident be searched yet again for Nymeria, the direwolf Arya had driven away. She wanted the wolf's pelt, she said, as an offering for Joffrey. Robert had roared at her—angry, weary, and far beyond patience. He told her to let the matter die. But Cersei never let anything die, especially not a grudge.
Worse still, she and Jaime had begun arguing as well. Cersei blamed him for failing to defend "the family" when Joffrey clashed with Arya and Mycah. Jaime, for once, did not indulge her. The tension between the twins added yet another sour note to the castle's already toxic air.
Ser Raymund wore the King's badge of loyalty, but his eyes were colder than courtesy allowed. Three of his elder brothers had fallen for Prince Rhaegar on this very river. Robert remembered their faces. So did Raymund. Courtesy became a strained performance between them, a mask cracking around the edges.
In the cramped courtyard, Jaime Lannister looked up and caught Eddard Stark watching him from an upper window. A faint smile tugged at his lips—amusement, or disdain, or both. He stood resplendent in gold armor, lion-headed helm at his side, white cloak immaculate. Even the way he leaned on his golden sword seemed calculated to unsettle. But Jaime showed no intention of provoking Ned today. Jon Snow, of all people, had earned his respect in that brief scrape on the road; even Jaime, for all his arrogance, acknowledged skill.
Still, Jaime's thoughts drifted uneasily toward Darry. A nest of traitors, Tyrion had warned him. The kind that still dream of dragons. Tyrion had also discovered, during Robert's journey north, that the Darrys once hid their Targaryen tapestries in the cellars before the King's arrival. Quiet defiance, but defiance nonetheless.
These are the enemies that matter, Jaime thought. Not those Starks with their honor and their glowering.
---
In the dim attic room that had become his temporary quarters, Eddard Stark closed the shutters with a sigh. His mind churned like northern snowstorms—dark, cold, relentless.
Perhaps I was a fool to travel with only a hundred attendants, he thought bitterly. In Winterfell, a hundred men were enough to guard a feast. In the south, surrounded by lions, spies, and serpents, a hundred was little more than a polite gesture. The Lannister red cloaks strutted through Darry Castle like they owned it, bright splashes of crimson in every shadow.
If this were King's Landing, Ned thought grimly, we would be walking into the lion's maw itself.
Bran's fall had twisted all his plans. The journey south had been rushed, confused, heavy with grief and suspicion. He had not even had time to study the old records of Lord Cregan Stark's march south—a tale of justice carried on the edge of a sword. Yet justice alone was not enough in a land where lies held more power than truth.
With a heavy breath, Ned made his way to Jon Snow's small attic room.
---
Jon's chamber was sparse but private—better than most knights could hope for, though far from the comforts of Winterfell. Jon sat with his shoulder wrapped in thick bandages, his wound still fresh and painful despite his effort to hide it. The cut along his cheek would scar. Ned saw that immediately and felt a pang of guilt.
"Child," Ned said softly, "perhaps I owe you an apology. This is not Winterfell, and here… I cannot shield you as I should."
Jon straightened, pretending the pain meant nothing. "It's nothing, my lord."
His dark hair fell over gray eyes—eyes that watched everything, measured everything, understood more than Jon ever admitted aloud. He pointed toward a heap of golden dragons glittering on his bed.
"These," Jon said, "the Queen sent them. Six hundred dragons. I haven't spent a single coin."
Ned snorted. "Lannisters are very generous when they want something. But a duke doesn't need to carry a child's toys. Keep them, Jon."
Jon nodded, though his eyes flickered. He already planned to give the gold to his father. Gold was more valuable than swords in King's Landing.
"My lord," Jon whispered, "you must be careful. Their people are everywhere."
Ned studied him quietly. Jon had always been observant, but here in the south, he seemed older, sharper—more cautious than Robb had ever been. It was the survival instinct of a bastard, Ned knew. Bastards learned quickly to read the truth in men's eyes.
"We've stepped into a nest of lies," Ned murmured. "King's Landing will be far worse."
"I'll protect myself," Jon said. "And I'll protect Arya and Sansa."
Ned rubbed his forehead. "Arya… that child is impossible. And Sansa…" He sighed. "Sansa's heart is wrapped in courtly dreams. I fear she understands nothing of the world she's walking into."
Jon said nothing, but he agreed. King's Landing would swallow Sansa whole.
"And you," Jon added softly, "must beware of traitors. In King's Landing, people care only for gold. Southerners… lie easily."
"Lies," Ned repeated. "And traitors." Both words tasted bitter. If traitors marked themselves plainly, Jon Arryn might still be alive.
The door suddenly burst open.
---
Arya stormed in, eyes red and swollen. "Father—you're here too."
Ned frowned. "What is wrong, child?" Then he saw it. The slim sword glinting in her hand.
"Give it to me," he said sternly.
Arya hesitated before handing it over, muttering under her breath.
Ned examined the blade, turning it toward the light. He traced the smith's mark with his thumb. "This is an assassin's sword," he said. "Micah forged this, didn't he?"
"I gave it to her," Jon said quickly. "Please, my lord—don't punish her."
"Arya," Ned said firmly, "this is not a toy."
"I hate them," Arya burst out. "Joffrey. His mother. And Sansa—Sansa is a traitor!"
"That is enough." Ned's voice snapped like ice. "Revenge is not a word for a lady."
"I don't want to be a lady!" Arya shouted. "I want to hit that idiot with a sword!"
"I should break this blade right now and end this nonsense."
"No!" Arya cried. "Needle won't break."
Jon winced. Arya's stubbornness was a direwolf's howl—wild and unyielding.
Ned sighed deeply. "Arya… you carry a wildness in you. My father called it the blood of the direwolf. Lyanna had it. Brandon had more. And both died young."
Jon and Arya fell silent. Ned rarely spoke of his siblings—ghosts of a past neither child had ever known.
"If my father had allowed it," Ned murmured, "Lyanna might have carried a sword too. When I see you, Arya, I see a piece of her. And yes—she was a great beauty."
Arya blinked, stunned. No one had ever compared her to Lyanna.
Jon lowered his gaze. No one had ever called him handsome either, though people said he looked "Stark." Lyanna must have carried that same Stark look but turned into something fierce and beautiful. Jon wondered if he had inherited any of it—or only the shadows.
---
Outside, in the courtyard of the Wolf's Den, Gendry stood with Daenerys as they watched Brienne of Tarth prepare to depart.
"Are you truly leaving?" Daenerys asked.
Brienne shifted awkwardly. Her tall, broad frame cast a long shadow. Her face was freckled, rough, her nose crooked as if broken more than once. Her mouth was wide, her teeth uneven. She was a formidable warrior—and an awkward girl. Many called her ugly. Few ever saw her strength.
"I must return to Tarth, Your Highness," Brienne said. "Your kindness honors me, but I have duties in the Stormlands."
Gendry smiled. "Then we'll meet again. And next time—on a battlefield."
"Then it's a promise," Brienne said. She hesitated, looking at them both. "I liked it here. Your men… they weren't cruel. They didn't mock me."
Daenerys's eyes softened.
Brienne continued, "Lord Renly once showed me great kindness. I must repay him before pursuing anything else."
Daenerys handed her a quartered sigil badge. "Take this. Jaime and I will be waiting for your return."
Brienne bowed, then turned and strode away—her steps firm, her back straight.
Anguy leaned toward Gendry, whispering, "Seven save her… look at that face."
"Enough," Gendry snapped. "Not every woman needs to fit a man's fancy."
Daenerys watched Brienne go, admiration shining in her violet eyes. "She's very charming," she said quietly—envy in her voice. A woman who could protect herself. A woman who feared nothing.
---
Across the castle, throughout the cramped chambers and narrow halls, the same tension coiled like a serpent: lies spoken politely, truths whispered in shadows, loyalties shifting beneath every word.
In Darry, among enemies and uneasy allies, sincerity was rare.
And lies—the currency of the south—were plentiful.
The Starks had come far from home.
And the game they stepped into was only beginning.
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