"Lord Eddard is not having an easy time of it," Qyburn remarked softly. His tone carried no surprise. "Northerners have never been suited for the intrigues of the Red Keep."
Gendry, sharpening a dagger beside him, looked up. "How many men did he bring to King's Landing?"
"A hundred guards," Qyburn replied. "And with him came his steward, his two daughters, and the boy Jon."
A hundred men. Gendry nodded slowly. A reasonable escort for Lord Eddard, he thought. At least more than the pathetic fifty he brought in the original timeline—fifty loyal men lost in a city of half a million souls. It seemed someone had warned him in advance, though even a hundred would be far from enough when chaos inevitably erupted.
"His arrival may already be a mistake," Ser Jorah said with a sigh. "Southern life grinds down men like him. In the North, raising soldiers, gathering supplies—it all demands time and a season untouched. But in the South? Time itself becomes your enemy."
Qyburn tapped on the large map of King's Landing spread across the table. "Lord Eddard is walking a path steeped in treachery. He's honest, and honest men do not fare well where truth is a weapon used only by fools. A hundred men will not be enough to secure the Red Keep—not when the people, gates, and guards can be turned against him with a whisper."
"There's only one way for him to survive," Gendry said. "He must abandon the enemy's battlefield and return to his own. Conspiracies should be answered not with words, but with steel." His gaze sharpened. "Just as Lord Cregan Stark once did."
But Eddard Stark had not yet realized the depth of the pit he walked into. A hundred guards were nothing when King's Landing decided to change colors. And he certainly did not foresee that his rivals might decide to ignore reason entirely and simply overturn the table—no matter the consequences.
"Lord Eddard has no allies," the Handsome Man muttered. "Littlefinger, Varys, Renly… each one is untrustworthy."
"Most of them are snakes," Jorah agreed. "Or at least men with their own ambitions."
"And the secret tunnels beneath the Red Keep?" the Handsome Man asked. "Varys knows them all. But is he the only one?"
"This knowledge belongs to the Targaryens," Qyburn explained. "In the past, they entrusted such secrets only to the Master of Whisperers. The previous master, known as Mummer's Foot, died long ago. Now only Varys retains that information."
War loomed. Gendry could feel it like a storm building on the horizon. Two women of House Tully—Lysa Arryn and Catelyn Stark—were like walking disasters, capable of derailing the entire realm. They were not solely to blame, of course; Tywin Lannister and others had long been preparing to ignite the flames.
"What of the Dothraki?" Gendry asked.
"The smaller khalasars will not move," Qyburn said. "What concerns us is Khal Drogo's host. If he crosses the Rhoyne, his first target will likely be Myr."
Across the Free Cities, shadows grew long. Khal Jhezkahn's khalasar had collapsed, leaving Drogo's dominance unchallenged. The war he would bring would be unlike anything the Free Cities had faced. This was not mere greed—this was Dothraki pride.
"It seems killing Khal Jhezkahn wasn't enough," Gendry thought grimly. "Drogo must be stopped too." Two great khals stood like opposing storms, destined to clash. The Dothraki could die by each other's blades—but never by foreign hands, or their legendary fearsome reputation would vanish.
"Still," the Handsome Man added, "their threat has benefited us. Qohor, Norvos, and Pentos all dread a Dothraki invasion. They've provided us with men, supplies, and gold."
The legendary Qohor garrison, the fearsome axe monks of Norvos, the Free Mercenaries of Pentos—all had sent support.
---
Meanwhile, in King's Landing, Eddard Stark felt trapped in a suffocating fog. Every direction was filled with hidden dangers. Varys, perfumed and smiling, was untrustworthy. Littlefinger, sly to the bone, even less so. They might deceive Catelyn—but not Eddard. Yet he had no choice but to tolerate them.
Behind every shadow, a conspiracy lurked: Jon Arryn's death, and the unthinkable secret held by the Lannister twins. That truth was darker than war itself.
Eddard walked into the Small Hall of the Tower of the Hand. The hall was long and narrow, crowned by a soaring dome. Although it could host two hundred guests, it was still called the "Small Hall" merely to distinguish it from the king's Great Hall, which could hold a thousand.
As he entered, Jory rose immediately. "My Lord."
The attendants followed, rising as one. They all wore new grey wool cloaks trimmed with white satin, each cloak embroidered with the Hand's sigil—a rigid, angular hand.
Jon wore the same attire, marking him as an attendant to the Hand. His status, however, was special, so he was given a seat at the main table. Sansa hated that detail and avoided looking at him whenever possible.
"Sit," Eddard told them. "Continue eating."
This meal—however simple—was the closest thing to peace he had found since arriving in King's Landing.
"My Lord," Jory said, "rumors say a Tourney is to be held. Knights from all over the realm will come to compete in your honor—to celebrate your appointment."
Eddard's expression hardened immediately. "…This is the last thing I want."
Jon and Arya exchanged glances. Such lavish celebrations were not to the taste of Northerners, who valued practicality over pomp. Tournaments cost a fortune—money better spent preparing for war, or at least securing peace.
"A Tourney?" Sansa gasped. Her eyes lit up like jewels. Sitting carefully between Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, she angled her head so her father wouldn't notice her excitement. "Father, may we go?"
"Sansa," Eddard said heavily, "you know how I feel about this foolishness. Clearly this nonsense came from Robert. I will help organize it because I must—yet that does not mean I intend to bring my daughters along."
"Please, Father," Sansa pleaded softly. "I truly want to go."
Septa Mordane spoke up, nodding approvingly. "My Lord, the young princess will attend, and she is even younger than Lady Sansa. Such an event is a major occasion in court society—every lady of standing will be present. And since the Tourney is held in your name, it may reflect poorly if your family is absent."
Eddard's head throbbed. These southerners understand nothing.
"…Very well," he said reluctantly. "I will arrange a place for you, Sansa." Then he looked at Jon and Arya. "For the three of you."
"I'm not going," Arya said instantly. "It'll be full of preening idiots—and Joffrey."
Jon stiffened at the mention of the Lannisters. "I won't go either," he said quietly.
Sansa sniffed. "Well, no one expected you to go anyway. You'd just ruin the mood."
"Sansa." Eddard's voice was heavy with warning. "Enough. I tire of your constant quarreling. You are sisters. You must love each other."
He looked away from their faces—he knew they were upset—but he lacked the strength to deal with it. The children's troubles were the least of his worries in this snake pit of a city.
"I have little appetite tonight," Eddard said finally. "Jon, walk with me."
The two left the hall. Behind them, laughter and talk resumed. Sansa leaned in close to Jeyne, whispering excitedly; Jory was laughing with the men; Hullen had already launched into a lecture about the finest horses in the North.
Only Arya watched the corridor with worried eyes, wondering what her father would discuss with Jon. Usually the three of them—her, Sansa, and Father—ate privately in the Hand's study. Sometimes Jon joined. Sansa hated those evenings, which made Arya love them all the more.
If only we could go back to Winterfell, Arya thought wistfully. We'd dine in the Great Hall like we always did.
---
Eddard's study was dim and quiet.
"How are you feeling?" Eddard asked.
"I've recovered, My Lord," Jon replied. Joffrey's blow had been poorly controlled, and the wounds healed quickly.
"But spies are everywhere," Jon added cautiously. "I don't know if they serve the Queen, Littlefinger, or Varys."
"Damn this city," Eddard muttered. "Everywhere I turn, I feel eyes watching me."
"Back in Winterfell," Eddard continued, "I often told Robb a lord must dine with his men if he hopes to keep their loyalty."
Jon nodded. "Yes, My Lord. You said a lord must not only know his men, but let his men know him. No soldier will bleed for a stranger."
"Just so. But here?" Eddard shook his head bitterly. "Among these Crownlands lords, I cannot see anyone clearly. I know their names, but not their hearts."
In Winterfell, his table had always been open—stewards, blacksmiths, storytellers, even septons from distant villages all had a place beside him. Here, everything felt cold and alien.
"I've arranged for a Braavosi swordmaster for Arya," Eddard said. "Water Dancing will suit her. Perhaps it will temper her nature. During the Tourney, the city will be crowded and full of trouble—better for Arya to stay in the Keep and learn."
"She will love that," Jon smiled faintly.
"And Lady Arryn…" Eddard's face tightened. "She fled back to the Eyrie with her entire household—my steward, my maester, her knights and attendants. She left me with nothing."
Jon hesitated. "My Lord… my attendant, Mikke—the butcher's younger brother—has contacts. I asked him to listen, and he gathered some information."
Eddard paused, then placed a firm hand on Jon's shoulder. "Good. Very good. You have a careful mind, Jon—more so than Robb. I need someone like you. I cannot rely on Littlefinger or Varys."
Jon's pride shone in his eyes. "I only serve, My Lord."
Eddard exhaled slowly.
He was lost in a fog—layer after layer of mist, each concealing another truth. Jon Arryn's death. Stannis's letter. The secrets of the Lannisters. Everything pointed to a conspiracy far darker than the court dared admit.
He needed new information—real information.
"I must speak with Grand Maester Pycelle," Eddard said. "I need Jon Arryn's medical records. And I must learn where Jon Arryn went in his final days. The truth is buried somewhere in that."
And Eddard Stark—honorable, stubborn, unyielding—would drag that truth into the light, no matter how deep the fog around him grew.
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