The night was deep and boundless. Beautiful, bustling Gulltown had fallen into stillness.
Deep within the woods outside Gulltown, Jon waited for Lord Gerold Grafton. He was lean and wiry, with a long face, brown hair, and gray eyes, all typical Stark features.
"I'm sorry, Jon. We can only meet this way. Your handwritten copy of the will has already spread all over Gulltown," said Gerold.
"I understand, Lord Gerold," Jon said.
"There's no other choice. Petyr made his start in Gulltown. The customs house is full of his spies," Lord Gerold explained.
"I understand. But with the late king's will as proof, what else is holding you back?" Jon asked.
"It is not that I doubt Lord Eddard or Ser Barristan's integrity. I simply have my own difficulties," Lord Gerold said. "First, my liege lord, Lord Arryn, is still a child, and Lady Lysa has ordered us not to send troops under any circumstances. Second, when will Ser Gendry's banners appear in Westeros? Gulltown is too exposed to war, so close to Dragonstone and King's Landing."
"That day is not far off," Jon said, forcing himself to sound certain. "All just men will condemn the treasonous villains."
"I look forward to that day as well," Lord Gerold said. "Unlike my father, I hope to take part in a war that ends in victory."
"You will see that victory," Jon said.
"Come, Jon. Let me introduce you to another nobleman." Gerold gestured toward the shadows, and another lord stepped forward.
"And this is?"
"The Lord of Redfort," Lord Gerold said by way of introduction. The man wore black, but his sigil was a red castle on a white field bordered in red.
"Horton Redfort. Give my regards to King Robert's rightful heir, Gendry, Jon. Redfort welcomes him." Lord Horton was short, and he greeted Jon with perfect courtesy. His gray beard was neatly trimmed, and he had a kind, gentle face.
"I will, my lord," Jon said with a nod, though he could not understand why the Lord of Redfort seemed so loyal.
"As it happens, Lord Horton and Prince Gendry are related by marriage," Gerold explained. "King Robert's eldest daughter, Lady Mya, who can now be called Mya Baratheon, is in love with Lord Horton's son, Mychel."
A trace of a smile appeared on Lord Horton's face. "They have known each other for a long time, and I give them my blessing." Ser Mychel Redfort was a member of House Redfort and squire to Ser Lyn Corbray. People said he was one of the finest young swordsmen in the Vale, brave beyond question. Back when he was still a squire, he had taken Mya Stone's maidenhead. Since then, he and Mya had remained in love.
So that was it. Jon finally understood. These old nobles never moved without profit in sight. If not for the king's will, and the very real possibility that the king's bastard might once again return with a great army, Lord Horton would almost certainly never have acknowledged the match or allowed his son to marry a bastard daughter.
"I will pass on your regards," Jon said politely. The honor they showed was not for him, but for Gendry's elite troops, his splendid warships, and his feat of slaying the Dothraki horselord.
"I am sorry about your father as well," Lord Horton said. "In truth, the Vale and the North are close, and Lord Eddard was once fostered at the Eyrie. We ought to wash away his disgrace and send troops into the Riverlands. But..."
"You mean Lady Lysa's wishes," Jon said, already understanding.
"Yes." Lord Horton nodded. "The lady is... difficult to put into words."
"There is something else you should know," Lord Gerold said. "Because Littlefinger was thrown into a dungeon in King's Landing by Lord Eddard, Lady Lysa flew into a fury and nearly had Lady Catelyn thrown into a sky cell. It did not happen, but she showed her no kindness after that. I expect Lady Catelyn has already left the Eyrie by now. The sisters parted on bad terms."
"Will Lady Catelyn be imprisoned?"
"There is no need to worry about that. Lady Lysa still has at least a little restraint. Lady Catelyn is likely already on her way to Gulltown."
"Lady Lysa is shockingly rude. So Lady Catelyn went to the Eyrie after her failed attempt to kidnap the Imp," Jon said with a sigh. "If that is the case, then Robb is the one holding Winterfell together now."
Jon knew Lady Catelyn despised him, his birth, and the way he looked even more Stark than some trueborn Starks. But with the snow falling and winter closing in, the lone wolf dies while the pack survives.
"Yes," Lord Horton said with a nod. "A pity Lady Lysa is not the woman she imagines herself to be."
Once Jon heard of the conflict between Lady Lysa and Catelyn, he knew the Vale would not be sending troops. If that was so, then the Starks would have no advantage in numbers if they marched south. It seemed they would still have to rely on support from across the Narrow Sea.
"Snow, are you all right?" Lord Horton asked with a frown when he saw the dark look on Jon's face.
"My lord, I'm fine," Jon Snow said, though in truth his mood was terrible. Lord Eddard and his two sisters were all in King's Landing, while Robb was barely holding things together in Winterfell. The situation was impossible to predict now. He was worried for Arya and the others, and worried for Robb as well.
"I understand how you feel. I felt the same when I heard that my father, Lord Marq Grafton, had been cut down by King Robert himself. But I could only accept it, and King Robert later pardoned me. Boy, these are times of war," Gerold said. Gerold had thick arms and broad shoulders, though he was not tall. He wore a dirty mop of blond hair, and his voice was loud and forceful. Yet he remained perfectly courteous.
Jon fell silent for a moment before speaking again. "After crossing the Fingers and the Three Sisters, I need to hurry back to White Harbor."
"There is someone you absolutely must meet," Lord Gerold said. "Bronze Yohn of Runestone."
"I will. I had already thought of that before I came," Jon said with a nod. Robb might already be calling his bannermen and leading an army south, but Jon's task was still that of an envoy.
House Royce was the foremost vassal of House Arryn. Their seat, Runestone, lay north of Gulltown along the coast of the Narrow Sea. House Royce was also related to House Stark.
"I recognize Lord Royce by sight," Jon added. "Years ago, when Lord Yohn's youngest son, Ser Waymar, swore his vows to the Night's Watch, Lord Yohn accompanied him north. When they passed through Winterfell, Lord Eddard hosted them. They went hunting together, and on the training grounds, Yohn even knocked Lord Eddard and the master at arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel, to the ground with a blunted tourney sword."
"Then that should be enough," Gerold said with visible relief. "Lord Yohn is a powerful man, and he has always been a loyal friend to House Stark."
"Thank you for the reminder," Jon said with a nod.
Winter is coming. To Jon, the Stark words had never sounded so grim, or so full of foreboding.
…
In the dungeons beneath the Red Keep, the straw spread across the floor reeked of urine. There were no windows, no bed, not even a slop bucket.
Urine and filth. Eddard had once been a Great Lord, and now this tiny space was all he had left. It was a pitiful thing.
Eddard's lips were cracked, and he felt as though he had fallen into an ice cave. He dimly remembered pale red walls streaked with patches of saltpeter, and a gray wooden door made of splintered boards, four feet thick, studded with iron nails. When they shoved him inside, he had only managed a quick glance around before the door slammed shut with a boom, and then he could see nothing at all. There was not a trace of light here. He was no different from a blind man.
"Damn it," Eddard sighed, feeling his way to the cold stone wall. What difference was there between him and a dead man now? Perhaps he was already as good as dead. Perhaps Robert had already been buried deep beneath the earth, turned into a king of worms. When the king died, the Hand followed him into the grave. That was his fate.
Eddard cursed every one of them. Littlefinger, Janos Slynt and his Golden Cloaks, the Queen, the Kingslayer, Pycelle, Varys, even Robert's own brother, Great Lord Renly, because he had run when Eddard needed him most. Yet in the end, the one Eddard blamed most was himself. He could never bring himself to abandon his men and his daughters in the city, and instead had led them into even greater danger.
The timing had simply been too cruel. The hunting accident had struck like a storm, and all Robert left behind was stagnant water.
"Fool!" Eddard shouted into the darkness. "You damned fool!" But there was no audience, and no one to applaud him. Eddard did not know whether he was cursing King Robert or himself.
Little by little, the darkness wore away Eddard's confidence and hope. In this dangerous game, his own servants had paid for him in blood and in life.
He remembered Cersei Lannister's face. That woman was surely laughing at him with vicious delight. Her hair was like sunlight, her smile sharp as a razor. "In the game of thrones, if you do not win, there is only death."
Eddard was filled with grief and rage. The ones he missed most were his two daughters, one just past eleven, the other only nine. He was trapped in a cell. Would they be all right? They were children of summer, untouched by winter's cruelty.
Darkness was the only thing Eddard had to face. There was no sunrise or moonrise here. He could see nothing, not even enough to scratch a mark on the wall. Whether his eyes were open or closed made no difference.
Eddard slept and woke, woke and slept, unable to tell which was worse. In sleep he dreamed dark, troubling dreams, full of blood and promises he could not keep. Awake, he had nothing to do but think, yet what filled his mind was even more terrible than any nightmare.
The one Eddard missed most was Catelyn. He did not know whether they would ever meet again, or where his beloved was now.
Time rushed past, though Eddard had no way to tell day from night outside. No one came to speak with him. All he could do was force himself to keep hoping. He felt there might still be a chance. If the Arryns and Harwin returned after slaying the Mountain, if the king's two brothers, Renly and Stannis, were already gathering their strength and calling the bannermen of Dragonstone and Storm's End. If Catelyn heard what had happened to him, then the lords of the North would march south in force, and the lords of the Vale and the Riverlands would rise as well.
But the people Eddard thought of most, again and again, were the king and his bastard son. He saw the king in his youth, tall and handsome, wearing a stag horned helm, warhammer in hand, mounted on horseback like some horned giant. In the darkness he heard Robert's laughter and looked into those clear blue eyes, bright as a mountain lake. "Eddard, by the gods. How did we end up like this? You are locked in here, and I died beneath a boar's feet. What about my son? Did that boy not save you?"
Then Eddard saw another young figure appear. Gendry. He had never met him, but he knew the young man's name. The youth wore a stag horned helm, black haired and blue eyed, tall and powerfully built, just like the king in his younger days. He swung his warhammer and smashed the door apart, his golden robe seeming to blaze like golden fire.
"We placed our hopes on the young man. Will it come true?" Eddard murmured, half asleep and half awake. Once again he felt he had failed Robert. The truth had not been spoken in time. They had killed the king.
Then Eddard thought of Littlefinger. He was probably laughing at him. Too proud, too stubborn, never willing to listen. Stark. Could pride fill your stomach? Could honor protect your children? Behind Littlefinger's smile there was nothing but lies. Eddard regretted not killing him sooner.
As Eddard's thoughts ran wild, he heard footsteps. At first he thought he was dreaming, but the sound soon grew clearer and clearer. When the heavy wooden door opened with a creak, the sudden light stabbed at his eyes.
A jailer tossed in a clay jug of water. Eddard opened his mouth and drank, feeling the water run over his beard.
"How much time has passed?" Eddard asked.
The jailer was as thin as a scarecrow, with a rat like face and a beard hacked to uneven lengths. He wore mail beneath a short leather cloak. "No talking," he said, snatching the water jug from Ned's hands.
"Please," Ned said. "My daughter..." The door slammed shut with a boom, and the light vanished at once.
All Eddard ever received was water, never food. He was always hungry. At least the Lannisters still remembered to send him something to drink.
After one drink, Eddard knew a new day had begun. It seemed Cersei still thought he was useful for something, rather than simply having him killed.
Then, in his haze, beyond the foul air, Eddard heard metal striking metal again. The door opened.
"Food," Eddard said, giving voice to his hope. The torchlight made him uncomfortable, and the walls of the cell were still as damp as ever.
"I brought wine."
Eddard made out the newcomer's face. This jailer was shorter and fatter, but he wore the same short leather cloak and a spiked steel helm.
"Lord Eddard, drink quickly." The jailer shoved a wineskin into Ned's hands.
The voice was strangely familiar, though it took Eddard Stark a moment to remember. "Varys?"
Eddard was startled. His eyesight had worsened so much that he had to reach out and feel Varys's face.
Varys's plump cheeks were covered in coarse black stubble, and Eddard's fingers felt the roughness of it. Varys had turned himself into a bearded jailer, and from head to toe he stank of sweat and sour wine.
"Are you... a magician?" Eddard asked in astonishment. Varys had more tricks than Eddard had ever known.
"Drink," Varys said.
"Is this the same poison the king drank?" Eddard stared at Varys, hurriedly lifting the wineskin, but he did not swallow.
"As expected, no one believes a poor eunuch," Varys said sadly. "You truly wrong me." Varys took a swallow himself, then handed it back to Eddard.
"This is dregs," Eddard said, taking a sip and spitting it out.
"My daughters..." Eddard could not stop himself from asking.
"Your sweet girls are not doing very well. Sansa is still in the Queen's hands, and the other one?"