"What in the Seven Hells is going on?"
The King's roar shook the study like thunder. "Such chaos, right under my own roof!"
He jabbed a thick finger toward the gathered courtiers. "You, you, and the rest of you—out. I don't need half the court crowding my room."
The gold cloaks and attendants withdrew at once, boots scraping against stone. When the doors closed, only a handful remained.
King Robert Baratheon.
Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Lord Renly Baratheon, Master of Laws.
Lord Eddard Stark.
And Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger.
The air grew heavy.
Robert turned his bloodshot eyes toward Eddard. "What's wrong with that son of yours, Ned? I don't remember him being so impulsive."
Eddard stepped forward, his back straight, his voice calm but resolute.
"I accuse Lord Petyr Baelish of damaging my family's honor through repeated slander. I demand judgment according to the law." He paused, then inclined his head. "I also beg Your Grace's forgiveness for Jon's rash behavior."
The King snorted. "Is that so?"
Robert frowned, scratching at his beard. He remembered Littlefinger as a clever jester—sharp-tongued, yes, but rarely foolish enough to provoke open conflict.
Before Baelish could speak, Renly stepped forward.
"My royal brother," Renly said lightly, "I sit often on the Small Council. If memory serves, Lord Petyr has indeed been fond of boasting—claiming intimacy with two ladies of House Tully. These words may not have been spoken before Lord Jon directly, but many within the Red Keep have heard them. Strictly speaking, such talk is an offense."
Littlefinger stiffened.
Of all people, Renly.
In the past, Renly had often echoed Baelish's sentiments, laughing along with his jokes, benefiting from his schemes. But now, when the winds shifted, Renly was the first to drive a dagger into his back.
It was only natural. In Renly's eyes, the favor of a great lord mattered far more than the goodwill of a Master of Coin.
Ser Barristan said nothing. His weathered face revealed neither approval nor disapproval. Politics, after all, rarely followed logic.
Robert's gaze snapped back to Littlefinger, cold and dangerous, like an enraged bull.
"Is that true, Lord Petyr?"
Littlefinger's knees hit the floor.
"Please forgive me, Your Grace. Please forgive me."
He bowed deeply, first toward Eddard, then toward the King. His voice trembled—not entirely an act.
For the first time in years, fear crawled up his spine.
Money and influence had always been his weapons, but those things existed only because others allowed them to. Against raw power, clever words meant nothing.
The Eddard Stark of the past had been trapped by honor and restraint. But now that Stark had stepped free of that mental snare, he would not hesitate.
Blood trickled down Littlefinger's forehead as he kowtowed again and again, his head striking stone.
King's Landing is not my foundation, he thought wildly. The Eyrie… the Eyrie is safer. Lysa… foolish, devoted Lysa.
"Petyr," Robert growled, hauling him upright with one massive hand. "You really should control your mouth."
The King's bulk dwarfed Baelish's slender frame, sun to star.
"Lord Jon's patience speaks well of him. Lord Eddard has every right to be angry." Robert's voice hardened. "Lady Catelyn is Eddard's wife. Lady Lysa was Lord Jon Arryn's widow. Neither is fodder for your rumors."
Smack.
Robert's hand struck Littlefinger's face.
Smack. Smack.
Despite his bloated form, the King's strength was terrifying. Colors exploded behind Littlefinger's eyes. The room spun.
"I was spreading rumors," Littlefinger sobbed. "I admit it. I await Your Grace's judgment."
"We are friends, Lord Eddard," he pleaded weakly, gasping for breath. "For old times' sake…"
Eddard did not respond.
"Renly," Robert said, wiping his hand on his tunic. "How should this be handled?"
Renly considered for a moment. "If an ordinary man slandered a high lord, his tongue would be cut out. But Lord Petyr is himself a high official. It is better left to Your Grace's wisdom."
Robert grunted. "Then I'll decide."
He turned to Eddard. "For today, this should satisfy you. Control your son—don't let him act so recklessly again."
Then his eyes returned to Littlefinger.
"You will keep your position as Master of Coin. But you will not return to your manse. There's somewhere more fitting for you—the Red Keep's dungeons. When you learn to hold your tongue, you may come out."
Littlefinger exhaled shakily. "Thank you, Your Grace."
It felt like a pardon.
As long as he lived, as long as he could speak again one day, there would be chances to rise.
He caught the hesitation flickering across Eddard's face—the familiar struggle between leaving and staying.
Stay, Littlefinger thought viciously. Stay, Stark. That will be your death.
Eddard bowed. "Thank you for Your Grace's wisdom."
Yet inside, he hated himself.
Hated that he still lacked that final, ruthless edge. His honor bound him once more, forcing him to compromise.
"Take him," Renly said coolly.
Littlefinger managed a crooked smile as guards led him away.
"Think carefully, Stark," Robert said, his voice calmer now.
Moments later, the King departed, and the farce ended.
That night, rain fell over King's Landing like black curtains.
"My lord," Jon said quietly. "The ships we need—"
"This matter must wait," Eddard replied. "Littlefinger gave me a lead. If I don't follow it now, I never will."
"But if we delay again—"
"You're right," Eddard said tiredly. "Yet some things cannot be abandoned."
Responsibility had shaped his entire life. Leaving now would mean betraying old vows—and a dead friend.
The brothel was easy to find.
It was an expensive establishment, frequented by princes and lords. Its owner was a tall woman from the Summer Isles, dark as polished obsidian, dressed in flowing feathers.
Eddard found the girl quickly.
She was young. Plain, by courtly standards. When she undid her dress to feed the child, he noticed freckles across her skin.
"I named her Barra," the girl said softly as the baby suckled. "She looks like him, doesn't she? His hair. His nose."
"Very much," Eddard murmured.
The infant's dark hair slid through his fingers like silk. He remembered Robert's first child—also dark-haired. That girl had grown up in the Eyrie. Robert had adored her once.
Are all his children like this? Eddard wondered grimly.
"My lord," the girl pleaded, hope bright in her eyes. "If you see him… tell him she's beautiful."
"I will," Eddard promised.
But his heart felt heavy.
Robert swore love and forgot it by nightfall. A Stark kept promises, no matter the cost.
"I swear," the girl whispered. "I've been with no one else. I only want him."
"I will see that the child is cared for," Eddard said. "She will never go hungry."
Her smile pierced him like a blade.
Later, riding through the rain, Jon followed behind him.
"How many now?" Eddard asked quietly.
"The fourth, my lord."
One in Storm's End.
One across the Narrow Sea.
One in King's Landing.
One in the Eyrie.
"There are more," Eddard thought.
Jon spoke again. "Three years ago, in the Westerlands… twins. Cersei had them killed."
Eddard said nothing.
The rain intensified.
Then Jon shouted, "My lord!"
Steel gleamed through the downpour.
"It's the lions."
Lannister soldiers blocked the road. More closed in behind them.
Jaime Lannister emerged, golden and smiling.
"Lord Stark," he said lightly. "Remember my brother?"
"I permitted that matter," Eddard replied.
"Good."
Jaime laughed. "Kill the horses."
Steel flashed.
Jon's horse screamed and fell. Jory charged—and died.
Mud swallowed Eddard as he dismounted.
Jory lay still.
Jaime laughed in the rain.
"What a poor Stark."
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