CATELYN
She traveled incognito by riverboat, her hood drawn low over her face. Ser Rodrik had insisted she darken her hair—"Auburn is too memorable, my lady," he'd warned, his weathered face creased with concern. The familiar Tully red now dulled to an unremarkable brown, as common as dirt.
King's Landing suffocated her from the moment they disembarked. The air hung thick with heat and decay, each breath coating her tongue with salt, sweat, and something fouler beneath.
They circled the Red Keep from a distance, wary as wolves in unfamiliar territory. How to reach Ned without announcing themselves. Catelyn's bandaged hands throbbed beneath her gloves, a constant reminder of the dagger, the blood, Bran's still form.
"This way, m'lady."
The boy appeared without warning—a slight figure in a clean but simple tunic, eyes too watchful for his years. An errand-runner by the look of him, the kind that blended into the stones of the city.
"He said you'd be coming. Lord Baelish sent me."
She exchanged a glance with Ser Rodrik. His hand moved subtly to his sword hilt, but he nodded. They followed.
The winding path through narrow streets led not to some discreet solar or merchant's home, but to an establishment whose nature became unmistakable as they approached. Lanterns glowed red behind gauzy curtains. The sounds that drifted from within—laughter too loud, moans too theatrical, the clatter of wine cups and clicking heels on wooden floors—left nothing to the imagination.
A brothel.
Catelyn stiffened, her spine going rigid as castle steel. The Tully pride that had been drilled into her since childhood rose to the surface, burning hotter than her embarrassment.
"My lady, perhaps—" Ser Rodrik began.
"We've come too far to turn back now," she cut him off, voice glacial.
She stepped through the doors with her head high, ignoring the painted women who paused mid-conversation to stare, ignoring the half-dressed men who froze with cups halfway to their lips. They'd see a weathered sea captain's wife,—nothing more. Not the Lady of Winterfell standing amidst sin and debauchery.
When Petyr Baelish finally appeared, lounging like a lord among silk cushions and carnal transactions, something in Catelyn snapped. The boy she'd once known, the man who'd nearly died for her hand, now master of this filth—it was too much.
"You little worm! You drag me into this back-alley... sullied den—" "I meant no disrespect. To you of all people," he said, all silk and smirk.
"How dare you bring me here? Have you lost your mind?" "No one would ever think to look for you in a place like this," he replied.
"Isn't that what you wanted? To be unseen? I apologize for the... ambiance." Before she could strike him with words again, the beaded curtain rustled. A bald man stepped through with the quiet grace of a cat. Rings flashed on long fingers. His eyes were soft. Too soft.
"Lady Stark," said Varys, as he reached for her hands without leave. His grip was cool. "We were most concerned when we heard of your... injuries." She yanked her hands back.
"How did you know I was coming?" Her voice had gone hard. Cold.
Varys smiled, the expression like a curtain being drawn to conceal something darker behind.
"Knowledge is my trade, my lady. Just as swords are your husband's." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "My little birds sing from every corner of the realm—even the frozen North. They bring me curious songs."
He turned to Baelish, the silk of his robes making a soft whisper against the floor. "Did she bring the dagger?"
Catelyn nodded to Ser Rodrik, who stepped forward and unwrapped the bundle with deliberate care. The blade gleamed in the lamplight—thin, cruel, unmistakably valuable. Valyrian steel caught the light differently than common metals; it seemed to drink it in, then reflect it more sharply."
"Exquisite craftsmanship," Varys murmured, leaning closer but not touching it. "Genuine Valyrian work."
Catelyn stepped forward, her patience worn thin. "Whose blade is it?"
Varys sighed. "Forgive me Lady Stark, but I admit. I do not know."
"Well, well," Petyr said with a slow smile spreading across his face. "A historic moment indeed. Something the Spider doesn't know, but I do."
Catelyn's gaze narrowed, the girlhood nickname of "Littlefinger" suddenly feeling far too quaint for the calculating man before her.
"There's only one dagger like this in all the Seven Kingdoms," Baelish continued, reaching out to run a finger along the flat of the blade. "It was mine."
"Yours?" The word escaped her as a shocked whisper.
"Once." He shrugged, his tone light. "I lost it at Prince Joffrey's last nameday tournament. I bet on Ser Jaime Lannister in the joust, like any sane man would." His smile turned wry. "But the Knight of Flowers unseated him."
His voice remained pleasant, almost amused, as if recounting a mildly entertaining dinner anecdote. But Catelyn's pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the muffled sounds of commerce from the rooms above.
"I lost this dagger that day," Baelish said, his eyes locked on hers.
"To whom?" Catelyn asked, though her breath had already started to deepen.
A beat. A smile—tight, unreadable.
"To Tyrion Lannister."
The name hit like ice water.
Tyrion.
The Imp.
Her breath caught in her throat. She went still.
Tyrion Lannister.
She stared at the dagger in her hand as if it had transformed—no longer just steel and hilt, but something else. A key. A fuse. A threat.
A foreign city. A filthy brothel. Her son's blood not yet dried in her memory.
And now—a name.
NED
Ned was poring over a stack of land claims and petty inheritance disputes—the endless, thankless work of the Hand—when Jory stepped into the solar, ushering in a dusty boy whose breath came in sharp bursts.
"Your lady is in the city," the lad said, eyes darting nervously around the tower room. "She's waiting. Lord Baelish requests your presence immediately."
Then he was gone, as swiftly as he'd appeared.
Ned stood slowly, the parchments forgotten. Something cold settled in his chest. Baelish was never urgent without purpose—and if Catelyn was in King's Landing—she meant to tell him something she cannot trust the ravens to deliver.
He made his way down the tower steps. Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long slats of gold across the Red Keep's courtyard, turning dust motes into floating embers.
As he passed the veranda, movement caught his eye—Arya mid-turn, her wooden practice sword a blur as she trained with Syrio Forel, the Braavosi water dancer he'd hired against half the court's disapproval. His daughter was laughing. Fierce. Fast. For a brief moment, she looked like she belonged in this place of intrigue and deception.
That training was the only thing that seemed to lift her spirits these days—gave her escape from the rigid lessons of the septa and the weight of what had happened on the Kingsroad.
But she still hadn't spoken to Sansa.
The memory of the Trident sat heavy in his mind. One afternoon. One spark. Arya and Joffrey. A butcher's boy dead. A lie that turned everyone's blood sour. Arya still hadn't forgiven her sister for standing by Joffrey's version of events. And Sansa—gods, Sansa had cried for hours after.
Not for the butcher's boy. Not for Arya. But for Lady.
She believed her direwolf was dead.
Only Ned knew the truth.
That night, after the queen's decree, he had taken Lady out himself. No guards. No stableboy. He walked alone beyond the inn, the leash tight in his hand. She hadn't made a sound. Just watched him with wide, solemn eyes that seemed to understand more than any wolf should.
He knelt in the frosted grass, whispered, "Go," and removed her collar.
And from the darkness, Nymeria stepped out—quiet, scarred, alive.
She had been waiting.
The two wolves touched noses, an ancient recognition passing between them. Then they vanished into the woods together before dawn broke.
He never told anyone. Not even Catelyn. It was a quiet rebellion, one of the few he could afford in this nest of vipers.
Now his wife was here—in the city—and Baelish had placed her in a brothel.
He nearly throttled the man on principle alone.
By the time he arrived at the establishment, anger burned behind his ribs like banked coals. The scent of perfume and wine hung thick in the air, a cloying mask over the underlying smell of sweat and secrets.
Then he saw her.
Catelyn stood from the settee as he entered, her eyes tired, her clothes travel-worn. It had been near a moon since they'd parted in Winterfell, and she had aged in the time between. Yet there was steel in her still—the proud tilt of her chin, the sharpness in her gaze.
"Cat," he said, his voice hushed with relief and concern.
She stepped into his arms, and they embraced tightly, each searching the other's face for changes the distance had wrought. Ned pulled her behind one of the silk curtains, where prying eyes couldn't easily find them.
"You shouldn't be here," he whispered. "It's dangerous."
"I had no choice." Her voice wavered, then steadied with resolve. "Ned, they tried to kill Bran."
Ned froze, his blood turning to ice. "What?"
"In his room. At night. Two men came."
He pulled back just enough to read her face, fear clawing at his throat.
Absolutely. Here's the cleaned-up sentence:
"The wolf saved him." Then she recounted everything—the two assassins, the struggle, how Ruyan killed one and spared the other to interrogate herself the next day.
"She didn't flinch, Ned. Not once. She... she killed him with a hairpin. No hesitation."
Ned's expression darkened, the implications settling like a weight. "And the blade?"
Ser Rodrik unwrapped the bundle and handed it over with practiced care.
Valyrian steel and dragon bone. The craftsmanship unmistakable. Not common. Not the weapon of a hired killer.
"Baelish says it belonged to him once," Catelyn said, watching his reaction. "Losing it from a bet in a tourney when he wagered on Ser Jaime."
"To whom?" Ned asked, already dreading the answer.
"Tyrion Lannister."
Ned exhaled slowly, the weight of the name hanging in the air between them like a sword on a fraying thread.
"It's the Lannisters, Ned. I know it in my bones—it's them." Catelyn whispered.
He glanced at the dagger again, turning it over in his hands before handing it back to Ser Rodrik.
"Do you trust Baelish?" he asked.
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. "He swore it on his name."
"His name isn't worth the breath it takes to speak it," Ned said flatly.
"Ruyan said it might be planted for misdirection." Catelyn said and shared their discussion after the interrogation.
"I think she was right. And there are still many things we have to find out to correctly bind all what we know." His eyes met hers, steady and grim.
She stared at him, uncertainty creeping into her expression. "So we wait?"
"We don't act blindly. Not with half a puzzle." He ran a hand through his hair, exhaustion briefly showing through his lord's mask. "I'm still looking into Jon Arryn's death. There are things that don't add up—people he visited, books he was reading. Let me finish this investigation. When I have proof, I'll take it to Robert."
She hesitated, then asked, "And what if Cersei twists it first? If she gets to him before you do?"
"Then we'll act. But not before." He reached for her hand, his callused fingers closing over hers. "We don't move until we have every piece. Ruyan cautioned the same."
She didn't answer right away. But then, her shoulders softened. She looked at him the way she used to in Winterfell—with pride and caution in equal measure.
"I only came because I had to," she said. "But you're the one who needs watching. You nearly strangled Littlefinger in front of his own guards."
He laughed under his breath, a moment of lightness in the gathering dark. "It was a near thing."
They both smiled, just for a heartbeat. Then her expression grew serious again.
"And the girls?"
Ned sobered, the weight of his daughters' fates settling back onto his shoulders.
"Sansa still attends the queen," he said. "She says little now. Keeps her head down."
Catelyn's brow furrowed. "After what happened at the Trident—she still stays close to her?"
"If she'd sided with Arya—if she'd spoken against Joffrey—the queen would have turned on both of them. Sansa lied because she had to. Not because she failed to learn from Ruyan. Because she did."
Catelyn didn't answer, but her eyes darkened. Understanding, and grief.
"She's not blind," Ned said quietly. "She's careful. She's surviving."
"She's still only a girl," Catelyn murmured, the mother breaking through.
"They both are," he said, voice rough. "But this court doesn't see children. And neither does the queen."
A silence settled between them—heavy with the weight of choices made, paths already taken.
"I'll protect them," Ned said at last. "I swear it."
"I know," Catelyn replied, her faith in him clear, quiet, unshaken.
He pulled her close again, holding her in the hush of the brothel parlor. Outside, the city roared—too fast, too loud, too dangerous. A viper's nest, where honor was a weakness and truth cost more than most could pay.
But here, for a moment, they were still. Together. Thinking. Preparing.
Because they both knew now: the war had already begun.
It just hadn't been named yet.