The mountain road was steep and treacherous. The biting wind and falling rocks were frightening enough, not to mention those detestable mountain wildlings.
Catelyn found the journey both dangerous and exhausting, but she had no choice. This was what she had to do for her house.
"Damn wildlings," she thought bitterly. If not for their interference, the Imp would already be in her custody, traveling with her toward the distant Eyrie.
Only when she saw the blue banner bearing the white crescent and falcon did she finally feel a measure of relief. It meant the knights of House Arryn had arrived.
"Lady, you should have sent word ahead," Ser Donnel said. "We could have arranged an escort. The mountain roads aren't what they used to be, and you've brought too few men."
"The wildlings have already cost us dearly. We lost three men the first time alone." His words struck straight at Catelyn's pain. She had learned that lesson the hard way. Several brave men had died along the road, harried day and night by the wildlings.
"Since Lord Jon's death, they've grown more unruly by the day," Ser Donnel continued as he led the way toward the Bloody Gate. "If it were up to me, I'd take a hundred riders and teach them a proper lesson. But your sister refuses. Lady Lysa won't even allow her knights to attend the Hand of the King's tournament. She insists on keeping all her forces here to guard the Vale. But as for who we're guarding against, no one can say."
Catelyn sighed, wondering if she had acted too rashly. Several men had already died for this journey. And she had yet to reveal her purpose. If she made it clear that she had already crossed House Lannister, these knights might not remain so at ease.
...
The council chamber was lavishly appointed. Flanking the doors stood a pair of Valyrian sphinx statues, their rounded garnet eyes gleaming vividly against black marble faces.
The floor was covered in Myrish carpets rather than rushes. In one corner stood a wooden screen from the Summer Isles, carved with hundreds of lifelike, brightly colored birds and beasts. The walls were draped with fine tapestries from Norvos, Qohor, and Lys.
It was a rare occasion for the king to attend the Small Council, yet Eddard felt no sense of satisfaction.
"My lord, is this truly your idea of a good plan?" Eddard said angrily, glaring at the plump Varys.
"I act not for the sake of one man, but for tens of thousands, Lord Hand of the King," Varys replied, spreading his hands as the cloying scent of perfume drifted outward.
"Blame me all you wish, so long as the matter is accomplished. I am not so blind that I fail to see the axe already casting its shadow over my neck."
"There is no immediate danger. This concerns nothing more than old matters from years past, and we cannot yet know what will come of it," Eddard said in warning.
"Cannot yet know?" Varys asked softly, twisting his powder-dusted hands. "My lord, you wrong me. Would I fabricate false reports to deceive His Grace and the assembled lords?"
Eddard looked at Varys with cold eyes. This was how Varys survived in King's Landing, through information and secrets. He alone held intelligence on the Targaryen siblings, and now there was the King's bastard as well.
"My lord, your information comes from a traitor thousands of miles away. He may be mistaken, or he may simply be lying."
"My informant would not dare deceive me," Varys said with a sly smile. "Rest assured, my lord, there is no mistake. The princess is indeed with child."
"Those are your words. If you are wrong, we have nothing to fear. If the girl miscarries, we have nothing to fear. If she bears a daughter instead of a son, we have nothing to fear. If the child dies in the cradle before it grows, we have nothing to fear."
"But what if it truly is a son?" the king pressed. "What if he lives?"
"Lord Eddard," Varys went on, "you may be overlooking something even more important. Daenerys's husband is just as ambitious. The fire of the east will one day return to the west. The fleet of the Four-Quarter banners has already taken Myr, Tyrosh, and the Stepstones. Those warships cannot be there for show. Just like during the Dance of the Dragons, the fleet of the Three Daughters has sealed off the Gullet."
"Just so," the king said darkly, draining a large goblet of wine. "Why hasn't Stannis returned? He should be commanding the royal fleet."
Eddard frowned. Stannis likely had no intention of returning.
"If we act this way, it may well have the opposite effect. The king of the Twin Cities Alliance will count his fleets and armies and come for vengeance."
"Vengeance? He is a traitor!" the king roared.
"Your Grace, you share blood. You should not be so cold. Both the old gods and the new would condemn kinslaying," Eddard said, unable to hold back. "An envoy may serve better than swords."
"That is exactly why we need you," Varys said smoothly. "Give the order, Hand of the King."
"I cannot give such an order," Eddard said with a sigh. "If it were open war, knights and fleets meeting in battle, I would not refuse."
"By the gods! Stark, you are as stubborn as ever!" The king swept his gaze across the council table. "What is this, all of you struck dumb? Who will talk some sense into this frozen fool?"
Varys gave the king an oily smile, then rested a hand lightly on Eddard's sleeve.
"Lord Stark, you are a good man. But a choice must be made."
Renly Baratheon shrugged.
"This seems simple enough to me. Viserys and his sister should have been killed long ago. It is only because His Grace once trusted Jon Arryn's counsel."
"Lord Renly, mercy is never a mistake," Eddard replied.
He pointed to a living example, Ser Barristan Selmy. At the Trident, Ser Barristan had cut down more than a dozen fine warriors, dealing the rebels heavy losses. He himself had been gravely wounded, and Roose Bolton had urged that his throat be slit. Yet the king spared him and ordered the maesters to tend his wounds.
But the king did not yield in the slightest. His face was flushed with anger. He had once shown great generosity, but sparing a Kingsguard knight did not mean he would show the same mercy to the remnants of House Targaryen.
"We will wipe out every last Targaryen!" the king roared.
"Your Grace, even Rhaegar could not frighten you in the past," Eddard said, trying and failing to keep the contempt from his voice. "Has your courage truly shrunk so much over the years that even the shadow of an unborn child makes you tremble?"
The argument between the king and Eddard grew fierce. Eddard could feel himself standing alone. One by one, the councillors voiced their positions, and aside from the old knight, not a single one stood with him.
The king wanted assassination, and the others quickly fell in line. Varys, Lord Renly, and of course Littlefinger.
Eddard swept his gaze across their faces, a deep loneliness settling in his chest. Only the old knight shared his stance, and the two of them stood alone against the rest.
Ser Barristan lifted his pale blue eyes.
"Your Grace, it is an honor to face one's enemy on the battlefield. But to strike at a child before it is even born is no honor at all. Forgive me, but I must stand with Lord Eddard."
The Grand Maester, however, did not agree. Instead, he spoke in broad terms about the good of the realm. The remnants of the Dragonlords would bring war.
"If the death of a single Daenerys could save countless lives, would that not be the wiser, even the more merciful, choice?"
The king looked to Eddard. On this matter, he already had the answer he wanted. Aside from Eddard and Barristan, the rest all nodded in agreement.
"You see, Eddard? That settles it."
What followed cut even deeper. Once the king had made his decision, it would not change. The only question left was how to carry out the assassination. They began to discuss methods, each more varied than the last. In the end, it was Varys who proposed poison, Tears of Lys.
All eyes turned to Eddard. The matter had reached its final step. They needed the Hand of the King to seal the decree.
Eddard met their gazes. He should obey the king, yet he could not abandon his principles. He was a Stark of Winterfell.
"Robert, I will not be a party to murder. A king may act as he wishes, but I will not set my seal to it."
He watched as the king's face slowly reddened. In that moment, Eddard understood why the king surrounded himself with flatterers and fools. Robert could not bear refusal. He preferred obedience, even from fools.
The king rose, looming like a mountain. His voice thundered as he pointed at Eddard.
"Lord Stark, you are the Hand of the King. You will do as I command, or I will find someone who will."
"Then I hope you find a new Hand worthy of the office."
A sharp pain tightened in Eddard's chest. He unclasped the silver Hand's brooch from his cloak and threw it onto the table before the king. This man had once been his friend, but now he was barely recognizable. The throne had changed him beyond measure.
The friend he had once loved felt very far away.
"Robert, I thought you were better than this. I thought we had raised a nobler king."
"Get out!" the king bellowed, his face turning purple, his fury spiraling out of control. "...Get out. Go back to Winterfell. Pray I never see your face again, or I swear I'll have your head and hang it on the wall."
Eddard bowed, then turned and left without another word, as if nothing had happened. Let them scheme their assassination.
He stepped out of the chamber, the door closing behind him. Ser Boros of the Kingsguard stood guard outside, casting Eddard a quick, suspicious glance from the corner of his eye. Seeing the Hand depart in silence, he asked no questions.