[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 40: NED et DANY (Edited and Revamped | Public) (Patreon)

The wind howling off the kingsroad carried the smell of wet earth and the stench of a thousand men. Eddard Stark pushed the heavy oak shutter open an inch, letting the freezing draft sweep the stale woodsmoke from his room in Castle Hayford. The small stone fortress was filled to bursting, the surrounding fields choked with a sea of canvas pavilions and smoking braziers. Tomorrow the long march ended. Tomorrow the great red walls of Aegon's High Hill would swallow them whole.

Down in the torchlit bailey, the clatter of ash wood striking boiled leather echoed over the low hum of the camp. Bran danced across the churned mud, his small hands gripping a wooden practice sword. He traded frantic, breathless blows with a Hayford squire, his cheeks flushed bright red against the cold. The boy dreamed of the Kingsguard. He dreamed of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Ser Barristan Selmy. A heavy knot tightened in Ned’s gut. He was bringing a naive trusting boy directly into the shadow of the Iron Throne.

A few paces away, Arya sat perched atop a salted cod cask, swinging her legs. Her grey riding leathers were caked in the thick brown muck of the road. She cheered her brother with fierce, unladylike shouts, a stark contrast to Sansa, who was securely sequestered within the keep proper, supping with the Queen’s ladies. Sansa lived in a world of songs. She viewed the Crown Prince as a savior pulled straight from the tales of the Age of Heroes. The King had demanded the match down in the freezing dark of the Winterfell crypts, standing amongst the stone direwolves and the dead Kings of Winter. Robert had slapped him on the shoulder, offering his son's hand, and Ned had been obliged to accept before he could have the true measure of the boy.

Ned turned away from the shutter. He walked to the heavy oak table and lifted a silver goblet. He poured a measure of Arbor Red from a nearby flagon.

The scent of the southern vintage dragged the ghosts from the dark recesses of his mind. It brought the faint, phantom smell of burning pitch and scorched flesh. He remembered riding his destrier into the Red Keep after the sack. The great hall had been eerily quiet. The pale stone floors were slick with fresh blood. The Mad King lay dead at the foot of the Iron Throne. Then Tywin Lannister had presented his tokens of fealty. Rhaegar Targaryen’s murdered babes. To hide the ruin of their small bodies, the butchery of his mad dog Clegane, Lord Tywin had wrapped them in heavy cloaks of Lannister crimson.

Ned set the goblet down. The wine soured in his throat. He looked at the plain, carved wooden box resting beside his dagger.

He undid the brass latch. Inside the velvet lining lay the Myrish lens and the scrap of parchment Catelyn had brought to him beneath the bleeding face of the heart tree. The smuggled warning from Petyr Baelish.

The Lannisters. The Queen. They murdered him. They poisoned Jon.

The ink scrawled across the vellum seemed to burn. Beside the memory of those words sat the omen from the summer snows. The dead direwolf rotting in the frost, its throat pierced by a shattered stag antler. The old gods had sent a warning written in blood. Every instinct honed in the high hills of the North demanded that he ride back to the Neck, behind the ruins of  Moat Cailin, and protect his kin.

Ned exhaled slowly, pulling his hand away from the velvet. He was the Warden of the North. He dispensed the King's justice. When a man was condemned to die, Ned swung the greatsword Ice himself. He required absolute certainty to take a man's life. Whispers in the dark and the shifting shapes of clouds held no weight in his justice.

He forced his mind away from the bloody events of the Rebellion and looked at the harsh facts of the present. Catelyn trusted Littlefinger, but Ned remembered the sly, smiling boy at Riverrun. Baelish was a creature of deceit and naked ambition. He had challenged Brandon Stark for Catelyn's hand and wept in the dirt when Brandon easily battered him to the ground. A man who survived by spinning webs of lies and making himself useful to greater lords was entirely capable of forging a conspiracy to save his own neck.

The official ravens bore the heavy wax seal of the Iron Throne. Lady Lysa Arryn had publicly confessed to poisoning her own husband, weeping her treason before the assembled lords of the Realm, including the honorable Bronze Yohn Royce. Petyr Baelish had been arrested by the Gold Cloaks for embezzling from the Crown’s treasury. The man had hung himself in the black cells out of terror and shame.

To condemn a fifteen-year-old Prince based solely on a smuggled note from a brothel owner  felt profoundly unjust. Joffrey Baratheon had ridden through the gates of Winterfell a giant in grey steel. He possessed the sheer physical bulk of Robert on the Trident. During the welcoming feast, Ned had watched from the high table. The Prince had walked down into the lower benches, wading into the ale-soaked chaos. He had locked forearms with the Greatjon, taking the massive Umber lord’s crushing strength without yielding a single inch. He had consumed the bitter winter ale and spoken to the Manderlys of shipyards and timber.

Joffrey carried the resemblance of his father. He was a stag through and through. When Robert had chosen to remain in the wolfswood to hunt boar, the Prince had politely taken his leave. He had taken ship from White Harbor, shouldering the burden of the Crown to ensure the realm did not collapse while the King partook in the revelry.

The heavy oak door of the guest chamber swung inward, grinding loudly on rusted iron hinges. King Robert ducked his massive head, stepping into the room. The King wore a heavy fur mantle over a stained tunic of yellow wool. His face was flushed, his coarse black beard bristling. He held a heavy silver flagon in one hand.

"Bugger this road," Robert grunted, slumping into a heavy wooden chair. The frame groaned in protest under his weight. "Another axle snapped on the road. The woman packs enough to break a hundred draft horses."

"The journey nears its end, Your Grace," Ned said respectfully.

Robert took a deep pull from the flagon, wiping his mouth with the back of a thick hand. "Aye. Tomorrow we sleep in our own beds, Ned. Proper featherbeds, not these lumpy Hayford pallets. I tell you, the only thing keeping me sane in this freezing mud is the ravens from the city."

Robert’s eyes brightened. He slammed the silver flagon down on the table. "The boy is a marvel, Ned! Stannis is sulking on his rock, and Jon is gone, but Joffrey has the whole bloody city working. He’s got some Essosi coin-clippers shaking down the port, building me a new fleet. He even dragged the fat flower of Highgarden into his counting-house. I don't know how the hell he does it, Ned, but he's got the Tyrells licking his boots for paper promises!"

The King laughed, a loud, booming sound that shook the dust from the rafters. "He fights like me, and he counts the gold like an old maester. I can finally hunt in peace."

Ned looked at his oldest friend. Robert was a man desperate to escape the suffocating weight of the crown. He was eagerly handing the kingdom over to his son.

"The Prince bears a heavy burden for his age," Ned observed carefully.

"He has the shoulders for it," Robert declared proudly. He leaned forward, his blue eyes suddenly serious. "You see it, don't you, Ned? When he stood up to the Greatjon in your own hall. The boy is strong. He will keep the peace when we are gone."

Ned met the King's gaze. "He bears the weight of the crown well, Robert. He has the look of a true king."

Robert grunted in deep satisfaction. He pushed himself up from the chair, the heavy furs shifting around his thick shoulders. "Get some sleep, Ned. Tomorrow, we ride into the stench."

The King ducked back out into the cold corridor, leaving the door ajar.

Ned stood alone in the quiet chamber. He walked back to the narrow, shuttered window. Bran had finished his sparring. The boy was wiping his face with a rag, laughing with the guardsmen in the mud. Ned looked back at the carved wooden box resting on the table.

He made his decision. He would walk through the Mud Gate with clear eyes. He was the Hand of the King. He would call for Ser Jacelyn Bywater. He would demand the ledgers of the royal treasury. He would inspect the gaolers' records and speak to the men who stood in the Great Hall when Lysa Arryn confessed. He would find the truth. If the Lannisters were guilty, he would bring the King's justice down upon them.

(shifting to Dany’s POV)
The hold of the merchant cog was pitch black and freezing. Daenerys sat huddled on rough oak planks, pulling a coarse blanket tight around her shivering shoulders. She breathed through her mouth to avoid the stench of stale urine and wet, rotting timber. The constant, rhythmic heaving of the deep hull dragged her mind back to the pale fogs of the Mother Rhoyne. She saw the wailing, grey-scaled stone men plummeting from the ruined arches of Chroyane. She heard the sickening crack of the spiked cudgel shattering Viserys’s jaw, right before a wailing stone man dropped from the fog, dragging her brother into the freezing, breathless dark of the river.

Viserys was dead. The Usurper’s assassins had finally caught them. The tattooed men who had thrown the heavy, weighted net over her had spoken in harsh Volantene dialects, their grips unyielding as they bound her wrists. They were taking her to King’s Landing. Viserys had told her the stories. He had told her how the Lannister lions had presented Princess Rhaenys to the Usurper wrapped in crimson cloaks to hide the butchery. She waited for the headsman’s axe.

The heavy iron latch above her rattled. The wooden hatch swung outward, admitting a sliver of pale moonlight and the bitter, biting wind of Blackwater Bay.

Two corsairs climbed down the narrow ladder. They hauled her upright, pushing her roughly toward the deck. The salt spray stung her eyes. The cog was anchored against a secluded stone quay. A squad of heavily armored men-at-arms waited on the frosted timbers. They wore plain steel half-helms and heavy wool cloaks. At their head stood a stocky, square-jawed knight with a pragmatic, unyielding face.

The corsairs handed her over without a single spoken word. The stocky knight gripped her arm firmly. His hold lacked the cruel, pinching malice of the Essosi slavers. He guided her toward a waiting carriage of dark wood, its windows draped tightly with heavy velvet curtains. He thrust her inside and shut the door.

The carriage lurched forward. The iron-rimmed wheels clattered violently over the cobblestones. Daenerys pressed herself against the padded leather squabs, her heart hammering against her ribs. The air outside smelled of woodsmoke and roasting fish. They were climbing, moving away from the stench of the harbor into the higher hills of the city. She braced herself for the descent into the black cells.

The carriage rolled to a halt. The door swung open. The square-jawed knight escorted her out into a walled courtyard paved with smooth flagstones. High walls of pale stone surrounded them, cutting off the noise of the city. Tall sentinels and climbing winter roses grew in the corners.

He led her up a flight of wide marble steps and pushed open heavy cedar doors.

Daenerys stepped over the threshold and froze.

The entrance hall was a cavern of warmth and luxury. Thick Myrish carpets covered the floorboards, displaying intricate patterns. Huge brass braziers burned in the corners, chasing away the autumn chill with the scent of dried cedar and sweet spices. She looked for iron rings or torture racks, finding only carved cedar panels and heavy tapestries depicting forest scenes.

A woman stepped forward from the glow of the hearth.

She wore the grey robes of the Faith. The Septa possessed a round, maternal face, the lines around her eyes crinkled with age and gentle concern. She carried a thick, folded stack of white linen.

"You must be frozen to the bone, child," the Septa said, her voice soothing and deeply resonant. She stepped closer, offering the linen. "The sea winds are harsh this time of year. Come. The hearth is lit."

Daenerys flinched instinctively, expecting a blow. Viserys had always struck her when she hesitated. The Septa merely waited, her hands steady, her expression completely devoid of malice.

The Septa guided her into an adjoining chamber. A massive copper tub sat in the center of the room, steaming heavily in the cool air. Maidservants poured pitchers of boiling water over dried lavender flowers. The sweet, calming aroma filled the space.

"Let us take those soiled things away," the Septa murmured, her fingers working deftly at the knots of Daenerys's salt-stiffened tunic.

Daenerys stood naked on the carpets, shivering from exhaustion. The older woman helped her over the rim of the tub. The water was incredibly hot, sinking deep into her aching muscles. The maids scrubbed the dried dirt and the grime of the ship's hold from her skin with soft sponges. The Septa inspected the dark purple bruises on her wrists from the corsairs' ropes. She applied a cooling salve of crushed mint and beeswax, her touch remarkably gentle.

After the bath, they dried her and draped a gown of soft, pale blue silk over her shoulders. The fabric whispered against her skin. The Septa led her to a heavy oak table near the fire.

A silver platter rested on the wood. It held a roasted fowl dripping with hot juices, surrounded by roasted root vegetables and a loaf of warm, crusty black bread. A crystal goblet was filled with watered sweet wine.

"Eat, child," the Septa urged gently.

Daenerys tore a chunk of the bread. She chewed the warm crust, the rich flavor flooding her mouth. She reached for the fowl, ripping the meat from the bone. It was the first hot meal she had eaten since the ambush on the river, and more importantly, she ate it without Viserys digging his fingers into her arm.

"The realm has a long memory," the Septa spoke softly, snipping the air with the blades. "The madness of King Aerys left deep scars across the Seven Kingdoms. The lords and the smallfolk suffered greatly under his fires. They harbor a deep hatred for the Targareyn name."

"Your silver hair is a beacon," the Septa explained, her tone entirely pragmatic and devoid of judgment. "It draws old grievances. It invites the vengeance of men whose fathers burned in the square. We must cast a shroud over you to ensure your safety in this city."

The Septa brought forward a small clay bowl filled with a thick, pungent paste. The maids helped massage the dye into her hair and her scalp. The dye stung her scalp, smelling harshly of sharp vinegar and black ink. They let it set, washing it out with warm water from a silver basin.

The Septa handed her a polished silver hand-glass.

Daenerys stared at the reflection. The silver-gold of the dragon was entirely gone. Her hair hung in straight, inky black strands, framing her pale face. The dark color made her violet eyes appear as a deep, unremarkable shade of blue. She looked exactly like a common merchant's daughter or a highborn bastard from the Crownlands. The Targaryen princess had been erased.

"You are safe now," the Septa whispered, taking the glass away. "You are hidden."

The maids cleared the platters and left the chamber. The Septa withdrew, shutting the door  with a soft click.

Daenerys stood alone in the opulent room. She walked to the window and peered through the heavy wooden shutters. Below in the courtyard, the square-jawed knight paced the flagstones. He carried a heavy longsword at his hip, his eyes scanning the high walls.

She retreated to the massive featherbed, sinking into the soft mattresses.

Viserys had spent his entire life telling her that the Usurper and his dogs were bloodthirsty beasts. He promised they would tear her apart if they ever crossed the sea. He had used that fear to demand her absolute obedience.

Yet the reality of the capital shattered every venomous lesson her brother had imparted. The men of the West had given her a hot bath, rich food, and a soft bed. They had applied soothing salves to her wounds. They had disguised her features to protect her from the lingering hatred of the mob. They treated her with far more compassion than Viserys ever had.

A deep, unsettling confusion gripped her mind. She pulled the thick woolen blankets up to her chin. She lay awake in the quiet dark, her heart hammering against her ribs. The Usurper's son had not paraded her in chains, nor had he sent the headsman. He had tucked her away in a velvet cage, leaving her to suffocate in the silence. She realized with a creeping dread that her survival no longer rested on dodging her brother's waking wrath; she was entirely at the mercy of a shadow who had not yet bothered to step into the light.

~~~