Eddard Stark found himself increasingly unsettled by Littlefinger's uncanny familiarity with the hidden passages of the Red Keep. King's Landing—and the sprawling castle it ruled from—remained strangers to him. Every turn, every corridor, every shadowed stair reminded him that he walked through another man's domain. Littlefinger knew too many secrets, and Varys knew more still. Though Eddard bore the title of Hand of the King, he felt very much like an outsider drifting through a nest of vipers.
He had left his home in the North—his true world—far behind.
The first day had already been filled with schemes and manipulations. Eddard had little patience for such games, but even he could no longer pretend they did not exist. Here in the South, trickery and betrayal were part of daily life. They fed men like Littlefinger.
Littlefinger led him through a labyrinth of passages until they arrived at the base of a narrow, spiraling stair. Below stood a heavy oaken door bound with iron. When they passed through it, Eddard blinked against the sudden burst of red dusk. They were standing high above the river, on a cliff face steep enough to dizzy any man.
"We're outside the Red Keep," Eddard said.
"You're not easy to fool, Stark," Littlefinger chuckled. "Was it the wind, or the sky that betrayed me?"
He motioned downward. "Come. There are handholds carved into the cliff. Try not to fall. Catelyn would never forgive me."
Then, as agile as a monkey, he slipped over the edge and began to climb.
Eddard stared after him, peering at the cliff. After a moment's search, he found the shallow hollows—so well-hidden they would escape even a careful eye. He descended slowly, the river roaring far beneath his boots, until at last he joined Littlefinger on a muddy riverside path where two horses waited.
Their path ended at a busy house filled with perfumed women—a brothel, unmistakably. Eddard's temper rose, but it cooled the moment he saw Ser Rodrik Cassel, his old master-at-arms. Rodrik's presence confirmed that Littlefinger had spoken truth: Catelyn was here.
But why? And why would Catelyn meet him on Littlefinger's ground?
Questions churned within him as he climbed to the third floor, walked a narrow hallway, and pushed open a door.
Catelyn stood within. The moment she saw him, she rushed forward, embracing him tightly.
"My lady," Eddard breathed, stunned.
Littlefinger smiled faintly as he shut the door.
"Good. At least you still recognize your wife."
Catelyn spoke of Arya and the young prince, of the girls' distress. Eddard nodded, but his mind returned to the urgent question: why had Catelyn come?
"Is it about Bran?" he asked softly. "Did he…?"
But Catelyn shook her head. "Yes—but not in the way you fear."
She lifted her left hand, and Eddard's eyes locked on the angry red scars running across her fingers. Two digits—little and ring finger—remained stiff and half-healed.
"You're injured," Eddard said, taking her hand gently. "Gods. What kind of wound—was it steel? My lady, tell me what happened."
Catelyn drew a dagger from beneath her cloak and placed it in his hands.
"This blade. Someone used it to try to kill Bran."
Eddard stared at the weapon. Valyrian steel, with a dragonbone hilt—an assassin's tool worthy of a noble.
Before he could speak, Catelyn pressed a finger to his lips. "Let me tell you everything from the beginning."
She recounted the assassin's attempt, the library tower fire, her secret journey south, the City Watch who intercepted her, Varys's whispered warnings, and finally Littlefinger's message.
Littlefinger watched from the side, eyes glimmering with satisfaction. Catelyn Tully, like her sister Lysa, was all heart and no caution. The pieces were falling into place. Wolves and lions believed themselves hunters—but they never saw the true hunter hiding behind them.
Eddard's thoughts drifted to the direwolf pup Arya had driven away on the Kingsroad. A bad omen, perhaps. The memory chilled him.
He looked again at the dagger.
"Tyrion Lannister's blade," he murmured. He drove it point-first into the wooden table. The Valyrian steel sank in without resistance. "Why would Tyrion want Bran dead? The boy never wronged him."
Littlefinger shrugged. "The Imp rarely acts alone."
Eddard paced the room. "Could the queen be involved? Or—" His breath caught. "No. Not Robert."
But memories pierced him: the cold morning when Robert suggested sending assassins after the Targaryen princess; the infant prince Rhaegar's son lying dead; Robert's indifference. The indifference he had shown on the Kingsroad as well.
"The king doesn't know," Littlefinger said lightly. "Robert prefers to stay blind to anything unpleasant."
"This must be handled cautiously," Eddard said at last. "War threatens us across the Narrow Sea. If chaos erupts in King's Landing, our enemies will strike."
Catelyn's eyes sharpened with anger. "This is Bran's life we are speaking of!"
Eddard met her gaze. "And the lives of thousands. If we misstep, everything burns."
Littlefinger approached, reclaiming the dagger from the table.
"War is unpredictable, Lord Stark. If you march against threats across the sea, who will rule in your absence?"
"Lannister," Eddard realized. A sobering truth.
Littlefinger continued, "I saw the king's bastard—a strong boy, though half-wild. But that is unimportant. Varys has told me something else: Khal Drogo prepares to attack Myr."
Eddard halted. "An attack? You're certain?"
"Quite. Why else do you think our good bastard hasn't yet attacked us? Their fleet is twice the size of ours."
Littlefinger smiled, pleased with himself.
"This is our chance, Stark. Windows of opportunity do not open twice."
Catelyn added, "If there are traitors around Robert, and you ignore them, that is disloyalty."
Eddard sighed. "We have a dagger. Nothing more."
Littlefinger twirled it idly. "A handsome weapon. But a dangerous thing to rely on. The Imp will simply say it was lost or stolen. The assassin is dead. Who could prove otherwise?"
He tossed it back to Eddard.
"Throw it in the river. Forget it ever existed."
Eddard hated needing Littlefinger, hated that he had no choice.
Catelyn spoke then. "I told Petyr of our suspicion that Jon Arryn was murdered. He has promised to help."
Eddard swallowed his bitterness. They needed allies.
"Does Varys know?" he asked.
"If Varys knows something," Littlefinger smirked, "it wasn't from me."
Eddard's mind churned with four looming problems: preparing Robert for war across the sea; Jon Arryn's death; Stannis's letter; and Bran's attempted murder. Three threads, all leading toward Lannister.
"What should I do?" he murmured. Wait for the war to end? Or strike while the Lannisters were vulnerable?
Littlefinger clasped his hands. "Worry less about distant flames and more about the fire at your door. I'll deal with Varys. The Lannisters—you must guard against them yourself."
Eddard's mind filled with memories: the Mad King's corpse; Jaime's bloody sword; Jon Arryn's sudden death; Bran falling; Arya fleeing in terror; the queen's cold fury.
He turned to Catelyn.
"You must return to Winterfell at once. If one assassin has come, others may follow. No matter who is behind this, they do not want Bran to live."
Catelyn wished to see their daughters, but both Eddard and Littlefinger denied her. The Red Keep was unsafe.
Littlefinger slipped away to give them privacy.
"Do not linger," he said. "The Hand and I must return soon."
Catelyn thanked him sincerely. Littlefinger only smiled, feigning humility. Eddard did not believe a single word, but courtesy demanded he offer thanks as well.
After the door shut, Eddard turned to his wife.
"As soon as you reach home, send orders in my name. Herman Tallhart and Galbart Glover must each dispatch a hundred archers to strengthen Moat Cailin. With two hundred archers, no army will cross the Neck. Tell Lord Manderly to accelerate White Harbor's defenses. And keep a close eye on Theon Greyjoy. If war comes, we will need his father's fleet."
Catelyn paled. "War? Truly?"
"It will not come to that," Ned reassured her, though he could not fully believe it. "The Lannisters only prey on weakness. They would not dare invade the North without the whole realm behind them."
He continued, "I must uncover the truth of Jon Arryn's death. When I have proof, I will place it before Robert."
"But promise me," he added, "never provoke the Lannisters. Not until we are ready."
Catelyn nodded, though fear lingered in her eyes.
Winterfell would prepare for the worst; the North always did.
---
Claw Peninsula — A Spark in the Dark
Far from King's Landing, on the bleak Claw Peninsula north of the capital, a hidden cave sheltered a ragged assembly of warriors—old men missing limbs, bruised youths with too little experience, and hardened women scarred by battle. They shared no common sigil, but all bore the mark of defeat.
Their armor was rust, their swords chipped, their spears mended more times than they could count.
Mortimer Boggs stood before them. Behind him, a chest filled with fresh armor and weapons rested open. His attendants unfurled a new quartered banner: a warhammer, a red dragon, a broken slave's chain, and a direwolf.
"You know what these symbols mean," Boggs said. "The princess and her betrothed are ready to cross the Narrow Sea. Their war is about to begin."
"But the boy Gendry—he is Robert's bastard," someone muttered.
Boggs shrugged. "The throne has only one seat. If he seeks it, he must topple the Lannisters and Baratheons. That makes him our ally."
He raised his sword high.
"Fight for the quartered banner!"
"Fight for the quartered banner!" they roared in reply.
"Tywin Lannister yet lives," Boggs continued. "What shall we do?"
"Blood and fire!" the warriors shouted.
Boggs smashed a wooden board carved with Tywin's name, splitting it cleanly.
"Ships will come," a man called out. "Do we attack when they arrive?"
"Not yet," Boggs answered. "There is a harder task first. We must choose the youngest, the cleverest—those unscarred by the last war. And before we join the rest, we head to the Riverlands."
The fires of war had not died; they were merely waiting for breath.
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