Chapter 161: The Stark No One Saw Arrive
Six days had passed since Robert's procession departed Winterfell.
The castle should have felt peaceful without hundreds of southern knights, servants, wagons, horses, and arguing nobles filling every courtyard.
Instead, it felt empty.
Eddard Stark had departed with fifty northern guards to serve as Hand of the King. Robert's court had followed him south, carrying Queen Cersei, Prince Joffrey, Jaime Lannister, Barristan Selmy, and numerous other complications away from the North.
Jon had remained behind.
His soldiers still occupied the disciplined camp beyond Winterfell's walls. Ten giants could be seen above the tents, and fifty enormous direwolves continued patrolling the camp's perimeter.
Yet everyone knew they would soon leave as well.
Robb sat in his father's place within Winterfell's council chamber.
The seat suddenly appeared much larger than it had when Ned occupied it.
Catelyn sat to his right. Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik Cassel, Hallis Mollen, and several household officers occupied the remaining chairs.
Jon stood near the window rather than sitting.
Robb looked toward the parchment before him.
"Six merchants have requested permission to trade directly with Winter's Heaven."
"They cannot," Jon said.
Robb raised his eyes.
"Because you do not trust them?"
"Because they possess no means of reaching it."
"They could purchase passage aboard northern ships."
"Those ships would become lost long before reaching my kingdom."
Maester Luwin leaned forward.
"Then how will the trade agreement function?"
"Through designated ports and warehouses," Jon answered. "Winter's Heaven will deliver goods to White Harbor. Approved merchants may purchase them there."
One of Winterfell's stewards frowned.
"Some merchants will complain that House Manderly controls too much of the trade."
"They already are," Robb said.
Catelyn studied her eldest son.
"What do you intend to do?"
Robb looked again at the requests.
Only weeks ago, he might have asked his father for the answer.
Now his father was travelling south, leaving Winterfell and the North beneath Robb's authority.
He considered the matter before speaking.
"White Harbor possesses the docks, warehouses, ships, and guards necessary to handle the trade. Allowing every merchant to approach Jon's ships would create disorder."
The steward nodded.
"Then the requests should be refused?"
"No."
Robb placed the parchments together.
"Tell them they may purchase licenses to operate through White Harbor. House Manderly will supervise the docks, but the merchants will negotiate their own purchases."
Catelyn's expression remained composed, but approval appeared in her eyes.
Jon's lips curved faintly.
Robb noticed.
"You disagree?"
"No."
"Then why are you smiling?"
"You searched for an answer instead of asking me to provide one."
Robb leaned back.
"You were testing me."
"I was observing you."
"That sounds like testing with fewer words."
Ser Rodrik concealed a smile beneath his beard.
Catelyn did not bother.
"You appear satisfied," she said to Jon.
"I am."
Robb looked down at the next document.
"You are leaving tomorrow."
It was not a question.
"At sunrise."
"Will anyone from Winter's Heaven remain behind?"
"No."
Robb looked toward the camp through the window.
"Not even guards for the trade?"
"The trade will pass through White Harbor. Lord Manderly possesses enough men to protect his own docks."
"And your merchants?"
"They will arrive aboard my ships and depart aboard those same ships. They require no permanent settlement upon Stark land."
Maester Luwin nodded.
"That should prevent disputes over whose laws apply to foreign soldiers."
"That is one reason," Jon said.
Robb studied him.
"You brought one thousand soldiers, ten giants, and fifty direwolves merely as an escort. Yet you will take every one of them home."
"They belong to Winter's Heaven."
"Some southern rulers would leave men behind to remind us of their strength."
"If the North requires reminders of my strength, then the demonstration failed."
Robb remembered ten ordinary soldiers defeating the finest warriors of Robert's court in forty-seven seconds.
"No," he said. "I do not believe anyone requires another reminder."
The council continued for another hour.
Jon spoke only when Robb required information that nobody else possessed. He did not interrupt decisions or correct every minor mistake.
Robb needed to experience the weight of command.
Advice could strengthen a leader.
Too much advice merely created dependence.
When the council ended, Jon departed alone.
Catelyn watched him leave.
"He deliberately allowed you to conduct the meeting," she said.
"I know."
"And?"
Robb looked toward the empty chair his father normally occupied.
"I think I understand why Father trusted him enough to leave."
---------------
The rumor had changed by the time it reached Sansa.
The first version claimed Jon had visited a brothel in the winter town.
The second claimed he had spent the entire night with a red-haired prostitute.
By the third telling, the woman possessed hair like fire, skin like milk, and a beauty capable of tempting kings into madness.
Everyone apparently knew her name.
Ros.
Sansa had heard two serving girls whispering about her near the kitchens.
She had pretended not to listen.
Later, she asked Jeyne Poole whether she knew anything about the woman.
Jeyne knew far too much.
"She is supposed to be the most beautiful woman in the winter town," Jeyne whispered. "Men pay enormous amounts merely to spend an hour with her."
"How enormous?"
"Five gold dragons."
Sansa had stared at her.
"That cannot be true."
"It is. One of the stablemen heard it from a guard who heard it from another guard who saw King Jon enter the brothel himself."
That hardly sounded reliable.
Unfortunately, every version agreed upon one detail.
Ros possessed red hair.
Sansa sat before the mirror in her chamber the evening before Jon's departure.
Her maid had already arranged her hair, but Sansa loosened one braid and drew several copper-red strands between her fingers.
She had always known her hair was beautiful.
Her mother possessed the same coloring. Singers compared red hair to autumn leaves, polished copper, and flames beneath the setting sun.
Until now, Sansa had never wondered whether Jon liked it.
She studied herself in the mirror.
Jon had left Winterfell when he was still a boy. The person who returned was entirely different.
He was no longer the quiet bastard who stood at the edge of feasts.
He was a king.
Soldiers obeyed him without hesitation. Giants lowered their heads when he spoke. Lords measured every word around him. Even King Robert treated him as an equal.
Sansa imagined herself standing within an enormous northern palace beside Jon.
She wore a silver gown trimmed with white fur. A crown rested upon her red hair. Jon looked at her not as the little girl he remembered, but as a beautiful lady worthy of standing beside a king.
He reached for her hand.
Sansa.
Nobody had ever said her name quite like that within her dreams.
A knock sounded against the door.
Sansa released her hair immediately.
"What?"
Arya opened the door without waiting for permission.
"Why are you staring at yourself?"
"I was not."
"You were."
"A lady is permitted to examine her appearance."
Arya looked at the loosened braid.
"You have been fixing that for half the afternoon."
"Did you want something?"
"No."
"Then leave."
Arya's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"You have been behaving strangely since those girls started whispering about Jon and the red-haired whore."
Sansa's face became hot.
"She is not—"
Arya grinned.
"You do care."
"I do not!"
"Then why are you shouting?"
Sansa stood.
"Get out!"
Arya escaped before Sansa could throw a cushion at her.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Sansa faced the mirror again.
Her cheeks remained red.
Jon was her brother.
Not truly, perhaps. Everyone now knew Ned Stark was not Jon's real father.
But they had been raised within the same family.
Her thoughts were foolish.
Improper.
They belonged in songs about distant princes, not inside Winterfell.
Sansa began repairing her braid.
A few moments later, she stopped and examined her reflection once more.
Ros had red hair.
So did she.
---------------
Jon knew Sansa was following him.
She believed she moved quietly.
She did not.
Her shoes made faint sounds against the stone floor, and the hem of her dress brushed the walls whenever she stopped near a corner.
Jon continued walking as though he had noticed nothing.
He entered the guest chamber he had used during his stay and found most of his belongings already removed.
Only a cloak, two maps, and several sealed documents remained upon the table.
Jon rolled the maps together.
Sansa appeared in the doorway.
She stood there silently, holding a pair of dark gloves embroidered with white thread.
Jon secured the maps.
Sansa continued staring.
He folded his cloak.
She still said nothing.
Jon finally looked toward her.
"Have I grown another head?"
Sansa blinked.
"What?"
"You have been staring at me long enough to find one."
"I was not staring."
"You followed me through three corridors."
"I was walking in the same direction."
"You stopped whenever I stopped."
"I did not wish to walk into you."
Jon nodded solemnly.
"A reasonable precaution."
Sansa realised he was teasing her.
A faint pout appeared upon her face.
Jon turned back toward the table, giving her time to regain her composure.
"What are those?"
Sansa looked down at the gloves.
"I made them."
"For whom?"
Her embarrassment increased.
"You."
Jon extended one hand.
She crossed the chamber and gave them to him.
Their fingers brushed.
The contact lasted only an instant, but Sansa felt it travel along her arm.
Jon examined the embroidery.
A white direwolf had been stitched across the back of each glove. The work was delicate and precise.
"These must have taken some time."
"Not very long."
It had taken her four evenings.
"They are beautiful."
Sansa lowered her eyes, pleased despite herself.
"They will keep your hands warm."
"My hands do not become cold easily."
Her expression fell.
Jon pulled one glove over his hand.
"Fortunately, kings are permitted to wear beautiful things even when they do not require them."
Sansa looked up again.
"They fit?"
"Perfectly."
She smiled.
Jon placed the second glove beside the maps.
Sansa's gaze moved over his face once more.
This time, he caught her openly.
"What is troubling you?"
"Nothing."
"Sansa."
She hesitated.
"People are speaking about you."
"People are always speaking about me."
"About a woman."
Jon's expression did not change.
"A particular woman?"
Sansa attempted to sound unconcerned.
"A red-haired woman from the winter town."
"Ros."
Hearing him speak the name so easily caused an unpleasant sensation inside her chest.
"You know her name."
"It would have been rude not to ask."
Sansa looked away.
"Is she beautiful?"
"Yes."
The immediate answer irritated her.
"Very beautiful?"
"Yes."
Sansa touched her own braid without realizing it.
Jon noticed.
"Is that why you visited her?"
"Because she was beautiful?"
"Because she had red hair."
Jon studied her.
The question suddenly made sense.
"Are you interested in the color of a woman's hair?"
"No."
"You appear extremely interested."
"I merely heard the rumors."
"And decided to investigate?"
"I am not investigating."
"You followed a king into an empty chamber and began questioning him about a woman. That resembles an investigation."
Sansa's cheeks reddened.
Jon laughed quietly.
"Do not worry. I will not have you imprisoned."
"I was not worried."
"Good."
Sansa gathered her courage.
"Did you visit her because of her hair?"
"Her hair was one of the first things I noticed."
Sansa's fingers tightened around her braid.
Jon stepped closer.
She became very still.
He lifted one loose red curl and allowed it to slide between his gloved fingers.
"However, hers is darker."
Sansa's breath caught.
Jon examined her hair as though considering a serious question.
"No one in the North possesses hair quite like yours."
"Do you think it is beautiful?"
"Yes."
The word emerged without hesitation.
Sansa's heart began beating faster.
Jon released the curl.
"You already knew that."
"I wanted to know whether you knew."
He raised an eyebrow.
"That sounds dangerously close to vanity."
"A lady should understand her best qualities."
"And what are your others?"
Sansa had answers prepared for any septa or visiting lady who asked.
Courtesy.
Needlework.
Music.
Proper conduct.
Before Jon, every answer disappeared.
"I do not know."
"That is unfortunate. You should discover them before relying entirely upon your hair."
She frowned.
Jon saw a tiny white thread caught beside her cheek, likely from the gloves.
He reached toward it.
Sansa stopped breathing.
His face moved closer.
The distance between them narrowed until she could feel the warmth of his breath.
The rumors about Ros vanished.
The empty chamber vanished.
Everything disappeared except Jon's eyes and the small remaining distance between their lips.
He wants to kiss me.
The thought arrived with such certainty that Sansa did not question it.
Her eyes closed.
She lifted her face slightly.
Nothing happened.
Jon removed the thread.
Then his hand descended upon her head and carelessly ruffled the hair she had spent so long arranging.
Sansa's eyes opened.
Jon held the white thread before her.
"You were carrying part of the gloves upon your face."
She stared at it.
"That was all?"
"What else would it be?"
"Nothing."
Jon studied her expression.
"Were you falling asleep while standing?"
"No!"
His lips curved.
"Then why did you close your eyes?"
"There was something near them."
"The thread was upon your cheek."
"I did not know that."
Jon discarded the thread.
Sansa attempted to repair her hair.
"You ruined it."
"It remains attached to your head."
"That does not mean it is arranged properly."
"You survived Arya as a sister. I believe your hair will survive my hand."
"Stop treating me like a child."
The words emerged more sharply than she intended.
Jon's amusement faded slightly.
Sansa looked away.
Everyone saw her as a girl.
Her mother, Robb, Septa Mordane, Arya, and now Jon.
Ros would never be treated like a child.
Jon leaned against the table.
"You want me to treat you differently?"
"Yes."
"How?"
Sansa opened her mouth.
She could not answer.
What could she possibly say?
Look at me the way you looked at Queen Cersei.
Look at me the way you must have looked at Ros.
See that I also have red hair.
"I am not a little girl," she said instead.
"No. Not as little as you once were."
"That is not the same."
"No."
Jon regarded her more seriously.
"When I left Winterfell, you were barely old enough to remember me. Now you are intelligent, observant, and capable of understanding far more than most people realise."
Sansa slowly looked toward him.
"You think I am intelligent?"
"I would not have said it otherwise."
Nobody's praise had ever affected her quite so strongly.
Not even Joffrey's compliments during the first days of the royal visit.
Those compliments now seemed polished and empty.
Jon spoke as though he were stating a fact.
"I may not return for some time," he continued. "Robb will require people he can trust. Help him. Watch the servants, visiting merchants, and lesser nobles. People speak carelessly around girls they believe harmless."
Sansa remembered how easily she heard the rumor about Ros.
"You want me to spy?"
"I want you to pay attention."
"That sounds like spying with fewer words."
Jon laughed.
"You have been speaking with Robb."
"He said the same thing about your testing."
"Then both of you are learning."
Sansa looked down.
The reality of his departure returned.
"When will you come back?"
"I do not know."
Her eyes stung unexpectedly.
She had only recently received her brother again.
Now Father had gone south, and Jon was leaving for a kingdom farther away than any place shown upon Winterfell's maps.
"Could I visit Winter's Heaven?"
"Eventually."
"When?"
"When the journey can be made safely."
"You allowed northern lords to visit."
"They travelled aboard my ship beneath the protection of my soldiers."
"Then I could do the same."
"Perhaps."
"That means no."
"It means perhaps."
Sansa hated that answer.
Jon saw her disappointment.
He opened his arms.
For a moment, she simply stared.
Then Sansa stepped forward.
Jon wrapped his arms around her.
She intended the embrace to remain dignified.
It did not.
The moment she felt his warmth surrounding her, she clung to him.
Jon was solid and comforting in a way no imagined prince had ever been. The faint scent of cold air, leather, and steel surrounded him.
Sansa closed her eyes.
Inside her mind, Winterfell disappeared again.
She was no longer a younger sister saying farewell.
She was a lady embracing a king before he rode into battle. He would carry the memory of her red hair across the distant seas. When he returned, he would find her waiting.
Perhaps one day he would finally understand that she was no longer the little girl he remembered.
Jon felt her tighten her arms.
He assumed she was struggling not to cry.
His hand moved gently across the back of her head.
"I will return."
"You promise?"
"Yes."
"Even if you have other people waiting for you?"
Jon heard the question beneath the question.
"Winter's Heaven possesses an entire kingdom of people waiting for me."
"That is not what I meant."
"I know."
Sansa drew back enough to look at him.
Jon lowered his head and kissed her forehead.
The simple affection sent warmth through her.
He began turning toward her cheek.
Sansa moved at the same moment, intending to ask him something.
His lips touched dangerously close to the corner of her mouth.
Both of them stopped.
The contact lasted less than a heartbeat.
It had not truly been a kiss upon her lips.
But it had been close enough for Sansa's entire face to burn.
Jon drew back.
Sansa stared at him, unable to speak.
His eyebrow rose.
"What is that expression?"
"I moved accidentally."
"I noticed."
"You were supposed to kiss my cheek."
"I was attempting to."
"I did not mean—"
Jon's amusement returned.
"Was one farewell kiss insufficient?"
"No!"
The answer came too quickly.
Jon laughed.
Sansa wanted the floor to open beneath her.
He placed a deliberate kiss upon her other cheek.
"There. A successful attempt."
"Jon!"
He ruffled her hair once more.
Sansa pushed his hand away, although she did not truly want him to stop touching her.
"You are terrible."
"I have been called worse."
She continued holding the front of his cloak.
Jon looked down at her fingers.
"Sansa?"
She reluctantly released him.
"You said you would return."
"I will."
"Even if there are other red-haired women waiting for you?"
Jon finally understood why Ros had occupied so much of the conversation.
His mouth curved.
"There is only one red-haired girl in Winterfell capable of making me promise."
Sansa's heart leapt.
Then Jon tapped one finger lightly against her forehead.
"My troublesome little sister."
The final words broke through her daydream.
Little sister.
Sansa smiled despite the small disappointment inside her.
Jon collected the maps and gloves from the table.
He wore the pair she had made as he departed the chamber.
Once the door closed, Sansa remained motionless.
Her fingers rose to the corner of her mouth.
His lips had barely touched it.
It had been an accident.
She knew that.
Yet when she remembered the brief contact, her heart refused to treat it like one.
---------------
Jon visited the winter town after darkness fell.
He wore an ordinary black cloak and travelled without guards.
The brothel keeper recognised him immediately but wisely asked no questions.
Ros was waiting upstairs.
She wore a thin red robe and an amused smile.
"I wondered whether kings said farewell to common women."
"Do you consider yourself common?"
"Only when speaking to men who arrive with giants."
Jon closed the door.
Ros crossed the room and placed her hands against his chest.
"The entire winter town knows you visited me."
"I heard."
"They claim you paid five dragons."
"I did."
"Now every woman downstairs hates me."
"You appear devastated."
"I may recover."
She pulled him toward the bed.
Several hours later, the candles had burned low.
Ros rested beneath the blankets while Jon dressed.
"You truly are leaving," she said.
"At sunrise."
"And returning to your hidden kingdom?"
"Yes."
"A kingdom no ordinary ship can find."
"That is what people say."
Ros watched him fasten his cloak.
"Will I ever see you again?"
Jon reached into a small pouch and removed an iron coin.
It appeared plain except for a dark pattern etched across one surface.
He placed it upon the table beside her bed.
"Keep that."
Ros picked it up.
"It is not gold."
"No."
"Then why should I keep it?"
"Because I asked you to."
She examined the strange pattern.
"What does it do?"
"It provides me with a road."
Ros looked toward the door.
"There is no road in this room."
"Not one you can see."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Will it allow you to find me?"
"Yes."
She closed her fingers around the coin.
"A promise?"
"A possibility."
Ros laughed softly.
"You are careful with your words."
"Promises should not be given carelessly."
She sat upright, holding the blanket against herself.
"If you return, will you want me to stop accepting other men?"
"No."
The answer surprised her.
"You do not care?"
"Our arrangement was never based upon ownership."
"And if I wished to become your mistress?"
"You would spend your life waiting for a place I never offered."
Ros studied him.
Most powerful men lied.
They promised jewels, estates, protection, and affection until desire was satisfied. Jon offered no false future.
Part of her disliked the answer.
Another part respected it.
"So I remain a whore."
"You remain whatever you choose to become."
"And if I choose this?"
"Then it is your choice."
Ros looked down at the iron coin.
"You may discover that another man is in this room when you use your invisible road."
"Then he will experience an interesting evening."
She laughed.
Jon opened the door.
"Keep the coin close."
"I will."
He left without another word.
Ros remained upon the bed, staring at the place where he had stood.
Then she secured the coin inside a small pouch and tied it around her neck.
---------------
Winterfell gathered to witness Jon's departure.
One thousand soldiers stood in formation beyond the gates. Ten giants waited among the supply wagons while fifty giant direwolves moved silently around the column.
Nothing remained within the camp.
Every tent had been dismantled.
Every weapon, wagon, cooking pot, and supply crate had been packed.
Within hours, the field beyond Winterfell would contain little more than flattened snow and the marks left by thousands of disciplined footsteps.
Robb approached Jon first.
They clasped forearms.
"Winterfell is yours until Father returns," Jon said. "Listen to Mother and Maester Luwin. Make your own decisions after hearing their advice."
"And if I make the wrong decision?"
"You will."
Robb frowned.
"That was not encouraging."
"Every ruler makes wrong decisions. Learn quickly enough that you do not repeat them."
Robb nodded.
"I will."
Bran came next.
Jon gave him a book describing several mechanical principles used within Winter's Heaven. Most of the advanced knowledge had been removed, but the remaining designs would occupy Bran for months.
Rickon demanded to be lifted high enough to see over the soldiers.
Jon raised him with one arm.
Arya approached with her practice sword hanging at her side.
"Continue training," Jon told her.
"Ser Rodrik says I hold the sword incorrectly."
"Ser Rodrik is correct."
Arya appeared betrayed.
"You said I could learn differently."
"Different does not mean careless."
He adjusted the position of her hand upon the practice sword.
"Learn the foundation before attempting to break its rules."
Arya nodded reluctantly.
Catelyn stood beside Sansa.
Jon faced the woman who had raised him but never truly accepted him as her son.
Their relationship had changed.
Not enough to erase years of distance.
Enough to allow respect.
"Keep them safe," Ned's wife said.
"I will protect what I can."
Catelyn inclined her head.
"Then travel safely."
Jon turned toward Sansa.
She wore her hair in perfect braids once more.
No evidence remained of the disorder he had caused.
Her eyes moved briefly toward the gloves upon his hands.
Jon deliberately flexed his fingers inside them.
"They fit well."
Sansa smiled.
"I told you they would."
Neither mentioned the private farewell.
Jon touched two fingers to his brow in a small gesture meant only for her.
Then he mounted his horse.
Sansa watched him ride toward the waiting army.
The soldiers began moving as one.
All ten giants marched with them.
All fifty direwolves followed the column.
The ground trembled beneath thousands of synchronized footsteps.
Within minutes, Jon disappeared among disciplined ranks of dark armor.
Nothing from Winter's Heaven remained behind.
Sansa touched her cheek.
Arya noticed.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing."
"You have been saying that frequently."
Sansa turned away.
Behind her, Arya's suspicious gaze narrowed.
---------------
The journey from Winterfell to White Harbor required several days.
Jon's column travelled faster than Robert's court but slower than a small mounted party. Giants, supply wagons, fifty enormous direwolves, and one thousand soldiers could not move unnoticed across northern roads.
Villagers gathered wherever they passed.
Some cheered.
Others simply stared.
Stories of ten ordinary soldiers defeating the finest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms had already spread ahead of them.
By the time Jon reached White Harbor, the account claimed five soldiers had defeated fifty knights without drawing their swords.
Jon made no attempt to correct anyone.
Wyman Manderly welcomed him with a feast large enough to feed a minor army.
Jon remained for one night.
The following morning, smaller ships carried his soldiers from White Harbor toward the Winter's Titan.
The enormous vessel waited beyond the coast.
Even after seeing it before, White Harbor's sailors continued staring at the impossible ship.
Entire fleets could have sheltered beneath its shadow.
The giants boarded through specially reinforced ramps.
The direwolves followed without hesitation.
Soldiers, horses, wagons, and supplies disappeared into the Titan's vast interior.
Jon boarded last.
From the harbor walls, witnesses saw his banner rise above the Titan.
Then the ship turned toward the distant sea.
For an entire day, Jon remained visible upon its upper deck.
After darkness concealed the vessel from every coastal watcher, he entered his private chamber.
Alex waited inside.
"The southern observers will report that you departed aboard the Titan," Alex said.
"They should."
"The fleet can return without you."
Jon placed one hand upon a marked seal embedded within the table.
Space folded.
The chamber vanished.
A heartbeat later, Jon stood inside his palace in Winter's Heaven.
The journey that would require ordinary men months had ended instantly.
Alex followed a moment later.
"Welcome home, Your Grace."
Jon walked toward the balcony.
Lights spread across his capital below. Rail engines moved along distant tracks. Factories continued operating beneath columns of controlled steam. Beyond the city, farms and settlements stretched across lands the Seven Kingdoms did not know existed.
Robert had asked why Jon did not desire the Iron Throne.
Standing above everything he had built, the answer felt even more obvious.
The Iron Throne would have been a burden.
Winter's Heaven was his achievement.
Yet part of Jon's attention remained far to the south.
He entered a quiet chamber and sat upon the floor.
His eyes closed.
Hundreds of leagues away, a small brown bird travelling above the kingsroad opened its eyes.
Jon saw through them.
Below, Robert Baratheon's procession continued crawling south.
---------------
Months passed.
The royal party travelled more quickly during the return journey than it had while moving north, but Robert's court remained enormous.
Wagons broke.
Horses became lame.
Rain turned sections of the kingsroad into mud.
Lords demanded comfortable stops, servants became sick, and Robert occasionally discovered an inn containing enough wine to delay the entire procession.
Ned used the journey to learn.
He listened to Robert speak about the crown's debts.
He questioned royal officers without revealing precisely what he wished to discover.
He watched Joffrey's behavior beneath Barristan's supervision.
The crown prince hated his new discipline.
Barristan woke him before sunrise.
He removed useless attendants from Joffrey's service.
He forced the prince to clean his own practice weapons and apologise whenever he abused a servant.
Joffrey learned to control his cruelty when Robert or Barristan could see him.
Whether he learned anything deeper remained uncertain.
Cersei fought the changes whenever possible.
Robert refused to yield.
Their arguments became frequent enough that servants could predict them.
Through the eyes of different birds, Jon witnessed portions of the journey.
He did not watch continuously.
Winter's Heaven required its king.
New settlements needed approval. Factories required expansion. The recently secured stations beyond the Wall needed soldiers, food, and permanent defenses.
But every few days, Jon's consciousness returned to the south.
Sometimes he watched Ned.
Sometimes Robert.
Occasionally Cersei.
The queen remained furious about Joffrey's treatment, but that was not the only matter occupying her thoughts.
Whenever the royal party passed a red-haired woman, her expression changed almost imperceptibly.
Jon found it amusing.
She still remembered Ros.
Cersei believed Jon had chosen the prostitute over her.
She had not yet accepted that Jon's choices were never hers to control.
Farther south, other men were also preparing.
Petyr Baelish received messages from inns, toll stations, and minor officials along the kingsroad.
Lord Eddard Stark was approaching.
Unlike Robert, Ned rarely drank heavily.
He did not gamble.
He did not visit brothels.
He did not confide in unfamiliar men.
He asked quiet questions and remembered the answers.
Baelish adjusted his plans.
An honorable man was predictable.
A cautious honorable man required more effort.
---------------
King's Landing appeared beneath a haze of heat and smoke.
Ned smelled the city before he clearly saw its walls.
Thousands of buildings crowded together behind stone defenses. Ships filled the harbor. The Red Keep rose above everything upon Aegon's High Hill, beautiful from a distance and dangerous from every other perspective.
Robert rode beside Ned.
"Home," the king said without enthusiasm.
Ned looked toward the city.
"For you."
Robert laughed.
"You sound as pleased as a man approaching his execution."
"I have never enjoyed southern heat."
"You have never enjoyed anything south of the Neck."
"That is not true."
"Name one thing."
Ned considered it.
"The road north."
Robert stared at him.
Then he began laughing loudly enough to startle his horse.
Above them, a small brown bird circled once before flying toward the Red Keep.
Nobody noticed.
The gates opened.
Crowds gathered along the streets, cheering for their king.
Robert raised one hand.
Ned watched the windows, rooftops, alleys, and guards.
He had arrived to rule beside his oldest friend.
He had also arrived to discover who murdered Jon Arryn.
The iron disc Jon had given him remained concealed beneath his clothing.
If you are ever in danger, throw it away from yourself.
Jon had offered no further explanation.
Ned still did not understand how a small piece of iron could save him.
He trusted his son enough to carry it.
The procession climbed toward the Red Keep.
By sunset, Eddard Stark entered the throne room as Hand of the King.
Renly Baratheon greeted him first.
"Lord Stark. I feared my brother might remain in the North permanently."
"He considered it," Ned said.
Robert snorted.
"Only because Winterfell possesses better ale than this miserable city."
Renly's eyes moved across the northern guards.
"Your daughters did not accompany you?"
"They remained in Winterfell."
Something flickered in the expressions of several courtiers.
Ned noticed.
So did the small brown bird perched upon a high window.
Grand Maester Pycelle approached with slow, careful steps.
"The realm is fortunate to receive a man of your reputation as Hand."
"The realm required a Hand before I arrived."
Pycelle lowered his head sadly.
"Lord Arryn's death was a great tragedy."
"Yes," Ned said. "It was."
Varys stood nearby in flowing robes, his expression filled with practiced sympathy.
"Lord Arryn was beloved by many."
Ned looked toward him.
"Then perhaps one of them can explain why he died."
For the briefest instant, the room became quieter.
Varys smiled gently.
"I fear age and illness require little explanation."
"So I have been told."
A new voice entered the conversation.
"King's Landing has missed honest men."
Petyr Baelish approached with an easy smile.
His clothing was elegant without appearing excessively grand. A mockingbird rested upon his breast.
Ned recognised him immediately.
"Lord Baelish."
"Lord Stark."
Petyr extended one hand.
Ned looked at it before accepting briefly.
"How is Lady Catelyn?"
"Well."
"I am pleased to hear it. We were close in our youth."
"So she told me."
Petyr searched Ned's face for jealousy.
He found none.
That was disappointing.
"I hope we may become friends," Baelish said.
"I did not come south seeking friends."
"No. You came because Robert commanded it."
Robert had already moved toward the throne and did not hear.
Ned's expression remained unchanged.
"I came because the king requires a Hand."
"Of course."
Baelish smiled.
"Although in King's Landing, hands occasionally discover that fingers can be removed one at a time."
"Is that a warning?"
"Advice."
"I prefer advice from men I trust."
Renly concealed his amusement.
Pycelle looked uncomfortable.
Varys watched everything.
Baelish's smile widened.
Catelyn's husband possessed more bite than expected.
That could be useful.
Or troublesome.
"We will have plenty of time to earn each other's trust," Petyr said.
"Trust is not earned through promises."
"No. Usually through shared secrets."
Ned looked directly into his eyes.
"I do not share mine."
For the first time, Baelish's smile weakened.
Only slightly.
Robert called for wine and ordered the court dismissed until morning.
Ned departed with his guards.
He would sleep inside the Tower of the Hand.
Tomorrow, he would begin examining royal accounts.
After that, he would trace Jon Arryn's final movements, question the people he had visited, and discover why a healthy man had died so suddenly.
He would tell no one what he sought.
Not Robert.
Not Pycelle.
Not Varys.
Certainly not Petyr Baelish.
High above the throne room, the small brown bird remained upon the window.
Its dark eyes followed Baelish.
Petyr felt the strange sensation of being watched.
He turned.
For a moment, his gaze settled upon the bird.
It appeared entirely ordinary.
Small.
Harmless.
Unworthy of attention.
Baelish looked away.
Across the world, seated within the heart of Winter's Heaven, Jon opened his eyes.
Ned had entered King's Landing believing he carried his investigation alone.
Baelish believed only one Stark had arrived.
Neither man yet understood the truth.
The second Stark had entered without passing through the gates.
End of Chapter 161
----------------