The flap fell back and with it came a breath of perfume that did not belong in a war camp. Lavender, something sweet as ripe pears, and a cloying undertone that made Ned think of summer gardens he had only heard sung about. The man himself moved with careful softness, robed in pale violet and cream. His smile was warm, but his eyes lacked warmth to match it.
Ned had met men from the Summer Isles with skin as dark as polished wood, and merchants from far ports who spoke queerly and laughed too loud. None of them felt so southern as this man. It wasn't Varys's blood that marked him. It was his ways. The silky, perfumed calm. The careful mannerisms without sincerity. The sense that every sentence was wrapped in another sentence you could not see.
He bowed low. "My lords. I come with grief, and with loyalty. Whatever banners may fly tomorrow, I have ever served the realm's people. I offer my humble homage to His Grace, King Robert, first of his name—"
"Robert is abed," Jon Arryn cut in, voice dry. "Recovering and drugged on milk of the poppy. You may offer him your homage when he can sit without falling over."
Varys's smile did not shift a hair. "The realm does not pause simply because kings sleep. I shall look forward to a long and fruitful working relationship with you, Lord Arryn. For whatever the Hand needs I shall be the most dutiful instrument."
Howland Reed made a soft sound in his throat that might have been contempt, or a warning, or both. Ned ignored it only because he needed answers.
"King's Landing," Ned said. He surprised himself with how sharp his voice came out. "Tell us what has happened in King's Landing."
Varys's hands folded over his belly. "Sack and slaughter," he said, and for a moment his manner went almost… mournful. "The city opened its gates to the protection of the lion. Or rather, believed it had. Tywin Lannister entered under the pretense of loyalty, and then…" He let his breath out slowly. "The streets ran with blood. The smallfolk hid in cellars and under their own beds. Those who could not hide…" His eyes flicked to Jon Arryn. "Those who could not hide, died."
Ned's stomach tightened. The camp smelled of smoke already. He did not want to imagine lodgings burned in place of logs.
"And the king?" Jon asked. His tone was calm, but the muscle in his jaw jumped.
Varys lowered his voice a fraction, as if the canvas might carry secrets. "Aerys Targaryen is dead. Slain by his own Kingsguard."
Ned leaned forward in shock. "By whom?"
"Ser Jaime Lannister," Varys said. "He put a sword in his king's back. Then, when the Red Keep filled with Lannister men, he sat himself upon the Iron Throne as though it were a boy's chair, and declared—" Varys's mouth curved as if in distaste at the words. "—that Cersei Lannister would be the new queen."
Outrage flared hot and clean through Ned's exhaustion. "That is treason," he snapped. "Jaime swore vows. The Kingsguard—"
"Aerys stole Tywin's heir and swore him to celibacy," Jon Arryn said, not excusing it, only sharing the whole picture. "Vows do not stop men who have decided they are done being ruled."
Ned glared at him. "You told me to be as high as honor, but now sanction the breaking of vows."
"Was it dishonorable to raise my banners in rebellion when Aerys asked for the heads of my wards?" Jon let emotion slip out before collecting himself.
"It is politics," Jon continued with a steady voice. "And a signal. Tywin does not mean to actually place Cersei on the throne. He means to tell the realm that any man who wants a crown must take it through Lannister hands." He looked Ned in the eye. "He is saying: marry my daughter if you want the throne."
The words settled like cold mud. Ned's thoughts went to Lyanna. To the betrothal that had already cost them too much. To his father's hard command and Lyanna's harder refusal. To all the ways a marriage could be used like a blade.
He glanced at Howland. The crannogman's face was still, but his eyes were alive, watchful. Ned knew what Howland would have said. Lyanna would rather die than be traded again.
"If Robert takes a Lannister bride," Ned said slowly, "it breaks his betrothal to my sister."
"It breaks it," Jon agreed. "And the North will have a grievance against the new regime. Compensation would be expected. Lands, gold, offices, hostages. Something." He paused, then added, softer: "But Robert may not willing give up on Lyanna. He is not a man who likes being told what to do."
Ned swallowed. Accepting a Lannister queen is what his sister would want. Yet it would mean hurting his best friend and trapping him with an unwanted wife.
He turned back to Varys. "My sister. Have you word of Lyanna Stark?"
For the first time since Varys entered, something in the man's eyes sharpened. Interest, perhaps. Or calculation.
"I have… a report," Varys said carefully. "Lady Lyanna was seen leaving the city by water. Rowed out beneath the walls by Dornishmen, and with her…" He spread his hands, palms up. "Princess Elia Martell."
Ned's breath caught.
Alive. Lyanna is alive. The thought struck so hard it made his vision swim. Then the rest followed, like a blade sliding home. If Lyanna had escaped with Elia, then Rhaegar's children likely lived too. He hoped Dorne wasn't too upset about Rhaegar trying to replace Elia with Lyanna. Surely they knew that Lyanna didn't want that.
"The safe return of my sister is the North's first concern," Ned said at once. He rose without realizing he meant to. "If Lyanna is with Dornishmen, then let Dorne negotiate her return. I should go to her. Now."
Jon Arryn's eyes narrowed. Alarm, quick and sharp. "You will not," he said. "Not yet."
Ned stared at him. "She is my blood."
"And Robert is your king," Jon said. "Your friend. Your brother in all but name. He lies burned and broken and you would abandon him the moment you hear Lyanna breathes?"
Ned's hands curled against the table edge. He could feel Howland behind him like a steady weight, present and silent. He could also feel Varys watching, soaking in every crack of tension like spilled wine on a white rug.
Ned forced himself to breathe through his nose. "I would not abandon Robert," he said, voice tight. "But I cannot sit on my hands while my sister is missing. Not after everything."
Jon Arryn's gaze held him, steel wrapped in courtesy. "And you cannot tear the host apart with panic. Not while we still do not know what the lion intends. Not while we do not know what Dorne intends. Robert must wake. Decisions must be made with a clear head." His mouth thinned. "As clear as Robert Baratheon can manage, anyway."
Then Jon's eyes flicked, finally, to Varys, as if he had remembered the man was still there.
"Thank you for your… service to the realm," Jon said, the words smooth but cold. "You have brought valuable information. You may go."
Varys bowed again, deeper than before. "As my lord commands. I am ever at the service of peace." His eyes slid to Ned as he left.
The tent flap whispered shut behind him.
Silence fell, thick as wool.
Howland was the first to speak. "Much depends on the king," he said quietly. There was no accusation in his tone, only the blunt truth of a northman "If Robert means to claim the throne, he must decide what he claims with it."
Jon Arryn nodded once. "We'll speak to him as soon as the maester allows it."
They left the command tent together, the air outside biting and damp. As they walked, Ned tried again to picture his friend Robert's laugh, to picture Ashara's smile, to picture Lyanna's stubborn frown when father told her no, but found his mind slipping away again.
They passed a line of wounded men, and then the smaller cluster of tents set aside for the highborn and the maester's work.
Maester Walys looked up as they approached, chain glinting dull in the grey light. He had been a fixture of Winterfell for as long as Ned could remember, all measured hands and patient scolding. Seeing him here, among blood and ash, made Ned feel briefly like a boy again.
"You stole my maester," Ned said, attempting a dry jest as the old man bowed. "Winterfell will fall into chaos without him."
Jon Arryn gave him a fatherly smile. "There is no maester more trustworthy," he said. "And in times like these, trust is more scarce than a dragon. Put your faith in him, Ned. He will tell us when Robert can be disturbed, and when he must be left to sleep."
Walys's eyes flicked between them, sharp behind age. "His Grace lives," he said simply. "But he is not ready for councils. Not yet."
Ned exhaled, slowly. Not yet. Nothing was ever yet. He had crossed a kingdom and was still no closer to finding his sister.
At least somewhere downriver, behind banners of lions and seahorses and spears, Lyanna still lived.