Ever since the quarrel at the Trident, House Stark and their retainers had ridden at the head of the royal procession. They kept a deliberate distance from the Lannisters, doing their best to avoid another confrontation. The tension between the two factions had become a constant, simmering presence. As for His Majesty King Robert Baratheon, he was seldom seen. Word spread among the guards that he remained inside the wheelhouse nearly all day, drinking himself past awareness.
Robert… has the crown twisted you so much? Eddard Stark wondered bitterly. The man who wore the crown now resembled little of the friend of his youth. A wall had risen between them—built of Lannister gold, Lannister temper, and Lannister influence. Lannister guards, that Lannister woman, and the Lannister Kingslayer.
Even within House Stark, the quarrel had left lasting cracks. Arya blamed Sansa; Sansa complained about Arya's wildness. And Jon—quiet, observant Jon—could not mend the rift between the sisters.
By the time the towering bronze gates of the Red Keep came into view, Eddard was sore, exhausted, hungry, and in no mood for any of this. Jon rode close behind him. Scars still crossed the boy's face and arms, but the wounds had not worsened. They were healing, slowly but steadily.
Jon and the butcher's boy—Tom—stared in awe at the Red Keep's crimson walls. But beneath Jon's amazement stirred unease. A new city, a dangerous court, and enemies wearing smiles. He did not need to be clever to know why House Stark rode ahead; the enmity with the Lannisters only grew sharper.
"Lord Hand," the Lord Steward called as Ned dismounted, "Grand Maester Pycelle requests an emergency meeting of the Small Council. He hopes the new Hand will attend—if convenient."
If convenient.
Eddard wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a roasted duck. "If convenient, then let it be tomorrow," he muttered, mood darkening.
"Very well, my Lord. I shall inform the council—"
"Forget it," Ned interrupted with a sigh. This was King's Landing, not Winterfell. If he turned away now, he would offend half the council before even taking office. "I will attend. Give me a few minutes to change into something more fitting."
"Yes, my Lord. The Tower of the Hand has been prepared for you. These were Lord Arryn's chambers."
"Thank you," Ned said quietly. "And see that a room is arranged for my son as well." Winter was coming; only family could be trusted. Behind him, the rest of the Stark household poured through the gates.
"Jon," Ned called.
Jon nudged his horse forward. "Father?"
"That woman—Queen Cersei—never forgets a slight. You offended her, and you must be cautious in this city. Especially Tom. They have no qualms killing a butcher's boy."
"I understand," Jon nodded solemnly.
"And you must also be careful," Jon added, surprising him. "This place… it feels wrong."
Not wisdom, perhaps, but the instinct of someone who had lived on the margins all his life.
Ned took the warning to heart.
After the steward led his daughters away, Ned borrowed a formal outfit—the rest of his belongings were still stuck with the trailing wagons—and followed the steward toward the council chamber.
---
The Small Council Convenes
The Small Council chamber was richly decorated, far beyond Ned's taste. Myrish carpets softened the stone floor. A carved wooden screen from the Summer Isles, alive with painted beasts, stood in one corner. The walls gleamed with tapestries from Norvos, Qohor, and Lys. A pair of Valyrian sphinxes guarded the entrance, their garnet eyes glowing in the candlelight.
None of it improved his mood.
The moment Ned stepped inside, Varys glided toward him like a pale spider.
"Lord Stark," the eunuch said with oily sweetness, "word of your troubles on the Kingsroad reached us. Most unfortunate. We all pray for young Lord Jon's swift recovery." His powdery hand brushed Ned's sleeve, leaving a faint scent of rotting flowers.
"My son is recovering well," Ned answered coolly. "His Majesty said the matter is forgotten."
"But some things are never forgotten," Varys murmured with a smile.
Ned stepped away from him and approached Renly Baratheon, who stood chatting with a small man wearing a mocking smile—Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger.
Renly, grown tall and handsome, bore a striking resemblance to his older brother in his youth. It unsettled Ned each time he saw him.
"Lord Stark, you arrived safely," Renly said.
"As did you," Ned replied.
"Forgive me, but you and my brother Robert often look carved from the same stone," he added honestly.
Renly laughed. "I'm nothing compared to the king. But there is someone who resembles him even more—a pity that Bastard is not truly on our side. He gives my brother no end of grief…and keeps our queen awake at night."
"Lord Renly," Varys hissed softly, "that is not to be spoken of."
"At least you dress better than His Majesty," Littlefinger cut in, eyes gleaming. "Lord Renly spends more on clothing than half the noblewomen in King's Landing."
Renly only shrugged, adjusting his emerald-clasped cloak. "I see no shame in looking presentable. Unlike some."
Littlefinger ignored the jab and turned to Ned with an insolent grin. "Lord Stark, I've long wished to meet you. Lady Catelyn must have mentioned me?"
"She has," Ned said stiffly. Littlefinger's arrogance irritated him. Were he more wolf than man, he might have slit the man's throat for sport. "If memory serves, you also knew my brother Brandon."
"Quite well," Littlefinger replied lightly. "I still bear a scar as a memento. Did he ever mention me?"
"Often. Usually when furious," Ned said, ending the conversation.
Littlefinger smirked. "Ah. Southerners say you Starks are carved from ice—but perhaps you melt quicker than expected."
Ned let it pass. He would not dance words with a man like this.
"Grand Maester," Ned said, approaching Pycelle, "you look well."
"For my age, I am fortunate," Pycelle said, smiling through his thinning hair. His chain—made of every metal forged by men—glistened like a coiled serpent.
"Let us begin," Pycelle urged. "If we delay further, I may doze off."
Ned took the chair at the right of the king's seat—empty, as usual.
"Lord Stark," Varys said smoothly, "as Hand of the King, we serve you."
I've walked into a den of vipers, Ned thought. What did he have? Robert's words felt painfully true: fools, flatterers, and liars. Renly, Littlefinger, Pycelle, Varys—how many were loyal to Robert? Or were they all creatures of Lannister gold?
"There are only five of us," Ned said pointedly. "Lord Stannis and Ser Barristan?"
"Lord Stannis returned to Dragonstone shortly after His Majesty rode north," Varys explained. "As for noble Ser Barristan, he accompanies the king through the city."
"Should we not wait for them?" Ned asked.
Renly snorted. "We could wait a week for Robert and still not see him."
"Our king is burdened with… many concerns," Varys added. "It falls to us to lighten his load."
"And he gives orders when the mood strikes him," Renly said. "This morning he commanded me to enter the city before him, and for Pycelle to summon the council. Apparently, he has an urgent matter."
Ned's unease sharpened. Robert should not be autocratic… but neither should he be absent entirely, lost to drink and indulgence. Ned had expected foolishness—but not this much.
Littlefinger passed a letter across the table. "His Majesty's command," he said cheerfully.
Ned broke the wax seal and read. His disbelief grew with every line.
"A tourney?" he said, voice cold. "A tourney? In my name?"
Renly laughed. Varys shrugged.
"Our king loves a spectacle."
Ned felt sick. He had expected to speak of war, of justice, of the realm's welfare. Instead—
"Let us speak first of His Majesty's debts," Ned said sharply.
The room stilled. The council exchanged glances. They had misjudged him.
Lord Eddard Stark knew more than they expected.
He intended to know everything.
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