Clash of Ambitions, chpt 19-22 (Patreon)

Chapter Nineteen

It took two days for Ned to gain his feet, but he was better than most.  Four men had died and two were still clinging to the edge of death. Robert was counted among the dead.

Wyman came to Ned’s room in the Red Keep, a small room far from the quarters of the Hand.  Yohn had likely assigned them when Ned’s favor had been in question and Tywin had been arguing for Ned’s arrest.  But now Ned was happy to be far from the bustle of the main halls.

“My lord,” Wyman said, closing the door softly. For a large man, he could still move with grace.  “How are you?”

“Better than most,” Ned said. “My stomach still sours at the idea of food, but the dizziness has passed.”  Riding in a maester’s wagon back to the capital while his body had been caught in a sensation of falling had been a special misery.

“The capital is full of accusations and unrest.”  The room was small enough it had only the bed and a small bench at the end.  Wyman settled on the bench and Ned remained abed.  “They say an incompetent brewmaster allowed the mash to sour and the poisoning was borne of negligence.  Two have been hanged, their heads mounted on pikes and the workshop burned.  The boys who worked there were driven away, and rumors say three have already shown up dead.”

Ned rubbed a hand over his face.  Cersei’s plot in his last life had depended upon luck and an aggressive boar to work.  It had been fate as much as overly strong ale that had killed Robert. This plot had been more ruthless, killing bystanders and ensuring Robert’s death so that no luck or fate or even the will of the gods could intervene.  This had Tywin’s mark.  “The boy king?” Ned asked.

“He struts, my lord.  No tears, no mourning for his father. He struts, and the servants whisper.”

“Servants in this place whisper too much,” Ned said.

“Aye,” Wyman agreed.  “The coronation will take place in a fortnight after a period of mourning. The servants whisper it is too short a time for a son to mourn his father.”

Ned closed his eyes.  Tywin was moving.  He would have almost three years of moulding Joffrey if he could separate Cersei from her poisonous offspring. Ned trusted he could.  As much as this situation resembled the one from his last life, Tywin’s involvement made the waters much more treacherous. Even with forewarning, Ned might not be able to get free of this trap.

“Wyman, I need your word you will follow my next orders.”

“Of course, Lord Stark. My family has always stood with yours.”

Ned smiled as he remembered how the Manderlys had undermined the Boltons and tortured the Freys in that other life.  “Aye, you have. You are the most faithful of families.”

Wyman smiled.

“I want you to move as quietly as possible and set sail for home the moment I have an audience with Tywin Lannister.  Get free of the capital as quietly as possible and sail back to White Harbor. Send word to Benjen to close the neck and send word to Winterfell to hold and follow my last orders.”

Wyman sucked in a breath.  “You expect war.”

“I fear war,” Ned corrected him.  “I expect men will keep their ambitions in check for a time and that time should allow the North to brace.  Remind my son that I do not want men south of the Neck unless they ride for a Great Council. Other than that, we keep our eyes to the north and wait for the hidden enemies to show.”

“We should leave together,” Wyman said.

“No,” Ned said firmly, “it is no accident that this plot has unfolded while I am here. I am Warden of the North and they think I am key to getting the North to bend the knee, but I will not be used.  Make that clear to my more stubborn bannermen.”

“Bolton,” Wyman said dryly.

Ned gave a weak laugh. “Bolton would not march to save me.  His own hide, aye. That would motivate him, but he will not stir for me.  I am more worried about the Mormonts and Umbers.  Maege will feel obligated to move because it was her kin that brought me here.”

Wyman’s expression darkened. “I am most wroth with Jorah. He should have been more leal.”

“The man’s loyalty is attached to his britches,” Ned said. It had been true in two lifetimes now.

Wyman grinned at him.  “Aye.”  His smile faded.  “Tywin demanded Liony return to the Westerlands and Jorah challenged him.  The white cloaks drove him from the throne room and he was given a sennight to get out of Westeros or face the king’s executioner.”

Jorah’s exile was another familiar path, but the white cloaks taking an interest was not. “The white cloaks moved to protect Tywin?”

“Tywin is the new Hand of the King with Cersei as regent, but the rumor is that she is in deep mourning and will not or cannot leave her rooms.”

“Bronze Yohn?”

“Dismissed with fanfare and honors,” Wyman said.

Fate strained to return to familiar ruts in the road, and Ned’s stomach soured more.  If he was fated to die in King’s Landing, he would die better this time.  He remembered the voices in the void–the ones that asked if he would sacrifice his soul for his children.  He did not regret the choice he’d made, but he wondered what would wait for him after death this time.

“Will you pledge the North to the service of King Joffrey?” Wyman asked, his voice a breath of a whisper. In these halls, one could not trust the walls themselves with a secret.

Ned thought through his options. If he openly confronted the Lannisters, it would not end well, and a precipitous move on their part might spur Robb into action.  However, Tywin was likely to respect Ned’s value as a hostage where the less intelligent members of his family never had.  “I will swear the North to the legitimate and rightful son of Robert Baratheon,” he finally said. He kept his own voice low even though what he was saying was, on the surface, perfectly proper.

Wyman’s eyes widened, and he moved a step closer.  “Let me leave guards with you, my lord.”

“No,” Ned said firmly. “Every man of the North needs to be in the North. If Tywin means to treat with me fairly, royal guards will escort me back to Whale Song just as they escorted me here. If he means to act dishonorably, a few Northern lives thrown away in my defense will mean nothing.  You have your orders.”

Wyman pressed his lips together and seemed to fight with himself over that order. Eventually he leaned in and whispered, “And what of the rumors? Does your vow hold the North?”

Ned stood, pausing as his vision greyed for a moment. Then he urged Wyman to move toward the outer wall of the room. This place was so far from the central areas of the Keep that he didn’t think there were hidden passages, but the exterior wall was the only place he could absolutely trust to be free of listeners. Even so, his words were little more than soft breath that Wyman had to strain to hear. “This cannot be spoken of, not unless war is declared.”

“I will keep your words in confidence, swearing Wylis and Wendel to do the same until your conditions are met.” They were a good house, leal and true. Manderlys had died with Robb at that cursed wedding, and still the family that survived had undermined the Lannisters and Boltons at every opportunity. They had taken revenge on Freys when other houses cowered. They might laugh more than other Northerners, but they had Northern ice in their blood.

“I asked Robert if his wife was true,” Ned admitted.  Wyman sucked in a startled breath.  “He said he allowed no man to be alone with Cersei unless he was family. She was disappointed with Myrcella’s looks, but then she was most in the company of her uncle Tygett.  When she grew large with Joffrey and Tygett spent time with her, Robert hoped the man would teach Cersei some discretion and respect.  Then he died of the pox.”

Wyman grimaced. “Her own uncle.”

Given that her brother had fathered all three children in his last lifetime, Ned was neither as shocked or as horrified as Wyman.  “After that, she went many years without growing heavy with child. Her nephew Lancel was a great comfort to her in those years.”

Wyman’s grimace grew deeper.  To sleep with an uncle was unwise and distasteful, but Lancel had been little more than a child, and Cersei had led him to commit treason against the king.

“Lord Stark…” Wyman looked away, clearly struggling with his words.

“I will do my best to return to the North,” Ned said, “but I am descended from the Kings of Winter. We have an obligation to serve the North, no matter where that takes us. I am as chained to my obligations as you are chained to follow the order of your liege lord.”

“There is no one I would rather serve, Lord Stark,” Wyman said, uncharacteristically serious.

“Then serve me well.  I am going to seek to send a raven telling Winterfell that I will stay for Robert’s funeral before hiring a ship to take me North. I suspect Tywin will want to discuss the content of my message and that will be your opportunity to move.  So go, prepare your household to move silently. Any property you abandon, House Stark will replace.

Wyman took a step backward and studied Ned, his expression conflicted, but then he gave a small bow. “Yes, my lord.  Safe travels and may the gods, old and new, guard your path.”

“The old gods have set me on this path and I trust them to see me to the end that will protect my family.” At least this time, Ned had no children in the capital.  Sansa would not be tortured by grown men. Arya would not be starved and driven to the Faceless men. The world might seek the old familiar ruts of his last life, but it could not repeat the same horrors. That was a price worth both his life and his soul.

Wyman left, and Ned looked at the view of servants beating carpets out his window.  He didn’t know where his life was leading, but his family was safe.  Robb was much more aware of the dangers both to the North and the South.  He’d been warned to keep Starks away from the wall and to distrust greenseers because something was corrupting them. Robb had a betrothal to a true woman, and Sansa would be married to a man, not for his political power but because of the strength of his personality, his honor, and his arm.

In two lifetimes, Daryn Hornwood had shown himself true, and Ned had given Robb the plans he had made to raise up the family by using the Broken Branch to irrigate significant rye and barley fields.  Winterfell would pay for the upgrades as part of Sansa’s dowry, but the true treasure, as far as Ned was concerned, was that his daughter would be with a true man who would respect her.

No, his family was not in the same danger.  If this was the price of his life, he would gladly pay it.

Ned waited several hours before wandering out of his rooms and walking the familiar path to the ravenry.  The poison had not left his system yet, and he had to stop on the stairs several times.  Guards in Lannister red watched him, but no one attempted to interfere as he moved toward the tower.

The dizziness had returned by the time he reached Pycelle’s realm.  A boy ran up the last few steps past Ned, so he was not surprised when Pycelle appeared, his chains clinking.  “Lord Stark, you should not be out of your bed.”

Ned breathed through his nose and leaned against the wall for support.  “I had thought the dizziness had passed. It appeared I overestimated my strength.” It galled him to say as much, but it was truth, and Pycelle could easily see it.  Sweat beaded on Ned’s forehead, and he clung to the wall as the world swam in and out of focus.

“Come, let us get you to a seat.” Instead of helping Ned, he gestured for several boys to support Ned up the last few steps and into a well-appointed room.  Ned sat on the couch and tried to convince his stomach he was not aboard ship during a storm.

“I need to send a raven,” Ned said, “but I am unable to write the message. Can I impose upon you to do it for me?” Ned asked.

“Of course, my lord.  Sending ravens is my duty.” Pycelle putted about the room, gathering quill and parchment before settling behind an ornate desk.  “What would you like to say?”

“It is for Winterfell,” Ned said.  He must bait this hook well. “I will remain for King Robert’s funeral and seek passage north on a ship only after.”  He could fit no more on a ravenscroll. That should convince Tywin that he was not too intractable to be useful.

“I will see it sent, Lord Stark. It is a terrible thing–the king’s death. He was in the prime of life.”

Robert had drank and eaten and whored until he little resembled the demon on the Trident, but Ned didn’t argue with Pycelle. The man was a servant of the Lannisters and had no real power of his own. He could only parrot what Tywin said.  

“Come, let the boys assist you back to your room,” he said, and Ned cooperated when two lads who had to be at least ten and five helped him to his feet.

Truth be told, Ned was not sure he would have made the trip down the stairs without tumbling the whole way, so the boys were a great help. It also allowed him to catch his breath by letting the boys carry much of his weight. He needed to recover before dealing with Tywin.

And sure enough, Tywin stood waiting when they reached the level where the public audiences took place.  There were two smaller rooms and then the throne room along with a dozen offices where Ned had set tax collectors to work during his time as Hand. He didn’t know who was in those rooms now.

“Lord Stark, I had not thought you would be out of bed. None of the other victims has been able to rise yet.”

“I needed to tell my lady wife that I would remain for Robert’s funeral, Lord Lannister.”

“I had thought you were anxious to return to the North.”

Ned stopped, his hand braced on the wall as he waved off the boys with his other hand.  They both hurried away with unseemly speed.  “Robert was my oldest and truest friend. I will honor him. Will his bones be laid to rest here or at Storm’s End?”

“He had expressed no preference, and Queen Cersei would have him buried here,” Tywin said.  Symbolically, that was the logical move. The Targaryens had built King’s Landing and the royal family were all buried in the Red Keep, so putting Robert to rest here signaled that he was the legitimate inheritor of the Targaryen empire–and by conquest he was. But the Baratheon rule now had a serious crisis. 

Ned nodded slowly.  “Lord Wyman told me you had taken the role of Hand. Did he speak true or are my brains still addled from the poison?”

Tywin started to move toward the throne room, and Ned followed slowly, shuffling his feet to slow them. Every second Tywin’s attention was on him was one more second Wyman had to escape with his household. It forced Tywin to walk slower to stay at Ned’s side.

“I have taken the role to advise King Joffrey.”

“Not regent?”

Tywin stopped, allowing Ned to catch up.  “A few argue for Stannis to act as regent, but King Joffrey has chosen his mother as regent.”

Ned nodded.  “Where are Lords Stannis and Renly? I would offer them my condolences on the loss of their brother.”

Tywin started walking again once Ned caught up. “They have returned to their respective keeps to mourn with their people.” 

Both had already been gone when Ned had been called before the small counsel, but he did not challenge Tywin.  The first time he had lived this life, he’d been an absolute fool to put his trust in truth.  Truth, like words, was nothing more than air. It was no defense from hard steel. “I shall pay my respects to them at the funeral, then,” Ned said. Tywin seemed to relax, so Ned must be doing a good job of playing ignorant.

They reached the throne room, and Joffrey was sitting on the throne, his gold crown canted forward. It made him look a fool, but from the way he lounged in the chair, he thought himself grand.  Ned had made a much better marriage deal this time–Myrcella instead of Joffrey.

“King Joffrey,” Ned said. He bowed his head, and then made a production out of stumbling.  He caught Tywin’s arm, and nearly pulled the other man over before he righted himself.  “I apologize, your grace,” Ned said, “but I fear if I try to take a knee, I will fall over. The poison has not left my blood and Pycelle wished me to stay abed, but I needed to tell my lady wife that I would remain for King Robert’s funeral.  A greater warrior or better friend this realm has never known.” Ned tried to chart a path between flattery and Northern bluntness.

“It’s fine,” Joffrey waved his hand in a gesture that was likely meant to be magnanimous, but at thirteen, he only looked like a child mocking his betters.  “The guards say you leapt to my father’s side when he fell from his horse and threatened to split the maester open and make him study his own innards if he didn’t treat my father.”  Joffrey’s eyes brightened as he spoke the last half.

“I did, your grace,” Ned said.  “I hoped to save his grace.  King Robert was such a great man that I cannot conceive of a world where poisoned hop took him from us.  In the Greyjoy Rebellion, I saw him kill four men with one swing of his hammer when they tried to board the ship. The kingsguard were like unschooled boys next to him–all but Barristan.”

“We dismissed him,” Joffrey said.  “You tried to save my father, but Barristan didn’t even notice that the ale had gone bad.”

Ned blinked, not sure what to say. He wondered if Barristan would go searching for Daenerys this time, and why Joffrey would blame Barristan for the poison. He was not the royal taster or the alemaster. It was a foolish move to dismiss Barristan, and Ned would have thought Tywin would put an end to it.

Then again, Barristan was a kingsguard, sworn to hold his king’s secrets. Perhaps they feared that he knew too much or had seen something that would call Joffrey’s legitimacy into question. If so, Ned hoped that Barristan knew to hide.

“I have many tales to tell of King Robert. He loved to tell of the Battles at Summerhall.  A leal man brought word that lords Grandison, Cafferen and Fell planned to join forces and march against your father.  Instead of waiting for the battle to come to him, staying behind the strong walls of Storm’s End, which he had come to provision for a siege, instead he rode out. He attacked three three forces, one at a time, before they could unite. Three battles in one day, and he was there, swinging his hammer at the front each time.  Ned told of the battles as Robert had loved to tell them, which meant that Ned did not know how much truth there was in them. He did know that Joffrey clung to each word, leaning forward in his seat and breathing hard when Ned described the battle and blood in detail.

Glorifying violence sickened Ned, but he needed to give Wyman time to sail, so he offered far more detail that was his wont.  When he ended with the tale of how Lords Cafferen and Grandison along with Lord Fell’s son Silveraxe became three of the most loyal bannermen because of Robert’s mercy after the battle, Ned lost Joffrey’s attention.  Before Ned could begin another story, Tywin spoke.

“Since you are here,” Tywin said, “It is proper for the North to give its vows to the new king.” 

“Of course,” Ned said easily.  “Your grace,” Ned said, bowing his head again but without taking a knee.  “The North vows its allegiance, its banners, and its support to the trueborn son of Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoyner, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”  From the way Joffrey preened, he didn’t notice that Ned had attached all honors to Robert, who had been the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. He never called Joffrey the true king, yet he had bent the knee enough that Tywin could not draw attention to the omission without drawing others’ notice and fueling the rumors.

And he could not demand another vow for fear of making it seem this vow was invalid. Ned did not like playing politics and he was quite a poor player, but he had planned this for a number of years.

Joffrey was pleased, but Tywin’s smile was thin.  “Lord Stark, your current room is so far from the main halls that it will make recovery more difficult. You should be closer to the maesters. Come, let us find you more appropriate quarters.”

“Thank you, Lord Hand,” Ned said. He could only hope the quarters were not in the black cells.

Chapter Twenty

Jaime nearly knocked Tyrion over as he hurried around the corner.

“And here I thought you were the one sibling I had who didn’t want me dead,” Tyrion said as he pushed off the wall he had stumbled into.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime said. He would have apologized more, but Tyrion waved him off. 

“Clearly some emergency has happened. Either that or you have eaten Benjen’s jerky and urgently need a privy.”

Jaime glared at his brother. “This is not a time for jests.”

“It is always a time for jests.” Tyrion studied Jaime like he was a bug to be dissected or a whole to be inspected. Jaime did not have time for his oddness.

“Benjen has received word.  Lord Stark is not to be allowed to leave the Red Keep and Lord Wyman has fled, resigning his post as Master of Ships by raven.”

The smile melted off Tyrion’s face. “Baratheon is dead,” he said, although Jaime didn’t know how he’d jumped to that conclusion.

“I imagine Father is riding for the Red Keep as we speak.  Cersei is there alone, and Joffrey is not yet a man with enough years to hold the crown, which might explain why they are holding Lord Stark.” Cersei had always been ruled by fear and greed more than common sense. Holding Lord Stark made no sense unless she was expecting the North to come marching down to take the capital from her. Ned Stark didn’t care enough about the south to bother.

Tyrion rubbed a hand over his face. “This is another fine mess our beloved sister has engineered.”

Jaime snorted. “She didn’t engineer anything. Word from the capital is that a batch of poorly made pies or mead poisoned an entire hunting group. The king is not the only one to die.” Fear had not gripped Jaime this firmly since he’d been on the road and the sellswords his father had hired told them what they would do to Tyrion if he did not surrender. He’d felt so helpless, and his brother had been a child of thirteen then.  He had the same feeling now, but he didn’t know how to fix it. He couldn’t kill all the sellswords and sneak into the Rock to kidnap his brother. He didn’t know what to do, so he focused on following Benjen’s orders. 

“Poison only means she is willing to kill innocents to target her victim.”  Tyrion fell in beside Jaime as he walked toward the soldier’s quarters.

“You are making assumptions.” Jaime kept his voice low. He felt as though the wrong word would set off an explosion, and the idea of Jon and Arthur being out there… blind… vulnerable.  His stomach soured.

Tyrion snorted. “A healthy king with another forty years of life drops dead three years before the prince is of age, leaving Cersei to guide the sadistic young man.  That feels less like an assumption and more like a logical conclusion.”

“You always see the worst in Cersei.”

“I see the truth. You see what you hope she will be.”

Jaime didn’t answer.  He had cut Cersei off as surely as he had cut off his father. They were too aligned in their goals and Jaime had chosen to protect Tyrion and his own sanity by fleeing the reach of either.

But he did still have feelings for Cersei. Not fond feelings, but something adjacent to that emotion. True, those feelings were stained with his shame for lying with her when they’d been standing on the precipice of adulthood and fury that she had slept with Lancel who was no more than a child. He felt contempt when he thought of what she had done, but he still remembered a little girl who had cried when their father had denied her the right to train in the yard. If Tywin Lannister had taken the same stance as Lord Tarth, how different would she be?

They reached the barracks, and Jaime opened the door to see most of the soldiers he’d been training engaged in betting games or drinking strong Northern ale.

“King Baratheon has died,” he announced without fanfare.  “Castle Lyanna will observe a time of mourning for the seven kingdoms, so Lord Benjen Stark requests that you return to your lords and lands. He will return a portion of gold to each of your lords to apologize for ending the training early.”

Several of the men had shot to their feet before Jaime even finished.  “Was it the thrice-cursed Ironborn? We’ll kill every man, woman, and child on that isle and end their cursed god forever!” one shouted.

“It was, apparently, thrice-cursed mead or pie,” Tyrion said with a nonchalance that made several of the men bristle at the disrespect.

“He was our good-brother, and we mourn his passing,” Jaime quickly said before heightened emotions could lead to violence. “We received word that poorly preserved food led to several men in a hunting party being laid low. King Baratheon is not the only casualty.”

Tyrion, however, did not know how to avoid aggravating men. “Killed by his food and ale. A terrible fate for a man who loved food, ale, wine, and women.  He was a man after my own heart, and I can only hope that if my ale is to kill me, too, that it wait until I am much older. He died before his time.” Tyrion rested his hand against his heart as he spoke with exaggerated emotion.

Jaime sometimes wondered why he put up with his brother. The little shitstain caused more trouble than he could talk his way out of. Even now, men were bristling.

“We all mourn my good-brother, which is why Lord Benjen asks you all to return to your homes.  By nightfall, we hope to close our gates.  Food and rations are available at the stables to ease your travels.” Jaime caught Tyrion by the shoulder and propelled him out of the room.  Word would travel among the men, so Jaime did not worry about those who had not been in the common hall. He had one warrior, though, who would never learn of this unless he found her himself.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jaime hissed once they had gotten far enough away to avoid being overheard.

“I didn’t have to, but I enjoyed doing it. They want to turn Robert Baratheon into a paragon of virtue–the warrior reborn. We’ve all heard the rumors, and seen the tax records. He was a man with as many flaws as I, and that means far more flaws than most.  As a monster, I can recognize another monster when I read of him in scrolls.”

Jaime clenched his jaw for a moment and tried to rein in his temper. As much as he loved Tyrion, the man had too few gentle instincts. He was not even gentle with himself, which never failed to annoy Jaime. “You are not a monster, and he was king.”

“He was a lecher,” Tyrion argued.

“A flaw that did not impact his ability to rule. Most kings are lechers.” Jaime had too many memories of Aerys and his strange excitement after seeing men burn to believe otherwise. All men were terrible; some simply gathered enough power to act in despicable ways and not suffer consequences.

Tyrion was not impressed with Jaime’s argument. “Most don’t fritter away the tax base and leave the kingdom in debt. Too bad he didn’t declare war on the Reach instead of the Iron Islands. Then he could have paid off those debts.”

Jaime gritted his teeth. While correct about the facts of the issue, Tyrion should not be speaking so irreverently of it. Unfortunately, Tyrion knew little but irreverence.

“Hopefully someone clears the debt before the true king can step into the role.”

“Tyrion!” Jaime hissed, horror coloring his words.

Tyrion looked up at him. “I am, of course, speaking of our nephew Joffrey and my hopes that Cersei will clear the debt before her son can rule without regent.” He smiled and blinked with exaggerated innocence and was, in short, infuriating.

Jaime took a deep breath and buried his frustration.  If he reacted, then any eavesdropper would know there was more to this story than either of them had said.  “I am sure Father will move to the Red Keep and ensure that Cersei does not beggar the realm with her silks and lace.”

“Never before have I been grateful for Father,” Tyrion said. “I’m sure others will be equally grateful if he can straighten out the books. Now that a Lannister is king, perhaps Father can even forgive the Crown’s debt. That would be a wonderful way to start a new reign as king.”

Jaime walked faster, leaving Tyrion to scramble in his wake. Maybe Tyrion’s wit was sharp enough to cut, but his legs were still short enough to leave him short of breath, and without breath, he could form no words.

Benjen had put Lady Brienne at the opposite end of the castle, so Tyrion was audibly panting before Jaime knocked on her door.

“You are a petty man,” Tyrion wheezed before he leaned against the wall.

“I use my advantages well,” Jaime countered. Before they could descend into bickering, the door opened.

Lady Brienne stood in a simple cote buttoned in front, but instead of showing a chemise below, she had on a man’s britches.  It was such an odd combination of men’s and women’s clothing that it caught Jaime off guard. He had grown used to seeing her in armor, and on the training field, he had no problem seeing her as a man. But the embroidered cote was not manish in any form.  Jaime cleared his throat.

“Lady Brienne, I had hoped to speak to you.”

“Ser Jaime.” Her voice was perfectly respectful, but he still got the impression that she was suspicious.

“I believe it has come time for you to return to Tarth.”

That startled her. “Have I offended you?”

Other than challenging him in ways that were a constant annoyance, she had not.  “King Baratheon has died. We have word that Lord Stark is unable to return. Wyman Manderly has returned to White Harbor. Castle Lyanna will observe a time of mourning.  This is not any offense you have given.” He blurted the words out, afraid to show any emotion at all for fear that his true thoughts would be evident. He had no talent with lying or keeping secrets, and his secrets were fuel that might set the kingdom on fire if he were not careful.

Brienne raised her chin. “I respect that you would wish to mourn. I know the king was your good brother, but I would choose to remain in the castle during this period.”

Jaime’s aggravation rose. Why couldn’t she accept his command? She did on the training field. Seven hells, she listened better and improved more than any man on the field. But now she had a stubborn tilt to her jaw.

Tyrion intervened. “I think my brother is worried that the realm may turn unstable and it is best to leave for home now before rumors and ravens reach the far corners of the realm.”

“Rumors? What rumors?”  Brienne projected a mild alarm, her body stiffening, and her hand going to her waist even though her sword was not buckled in place.

Jaime sucked in a breath, but Tyrion answered before Jaime could think of an appropriate response. It was hardly a surprise that Tyrion thought faster than he did.

“My lady, you must be the only one in the kingdom who has not heard rumors.”

Her face turned to stone. “I assure you that few wish to share any conversation with me, much less speak to me for pleasure.”

Tyrion grinned and pushed past her, straight into her private quarters. “Then let me be the first.”

“Tyrion!” Jaime hissed, horrified at his brother’s actions, and Brienne seemed equally nonplussed.

“Get in here so we won’t be overhead,” Tyrion said, which were the most terrifying words in the seven kingdoms.  As though pulled by strings, Jaime followed his brother, even against his will.  He had never been in Brienne’s room before, and it was far more womanly than he had expected.  There was embroidery in a hoop sitting by the window and embroidered pillows, although Jaime didn’t know if she had brought those covers or if the women working at Castle Lyanna thought it proper. Either way, Jaime would have expected her to have tossed such womanly artifacts into a corner. Maybe even spat or pissed on them.

“This is most improper,” Brienne said, and Jaime opened his mouth to agree, but as usual, Tyrion found words first.

“Improper are the things said about my nephew, the soon-to-be-crowned king of the seven kingdoms. Why, there are whispers that he is a bastard, born of another Lannister. Can you believe that?” Tyrion demanded in a horrified voice that almost convinced Jaime. Brienne didn’t look fooled, though. Tyrion continued. “Slander! Lies! Inconceivable tales of incest and horror.  The throne always attracts such envious whispers. After all, look what they said about good King Aerys.”

Brienne’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline.

“Exactly!” Tyrion said triumphantly as he pointed a stubby finger at her.

“Your brother is quite mad,” Brienne said in a concerned tone.

“Trust me, I know,” Jaime admitted wearily.

Tyrion scoffed. “Even worse are those ruffians, those ignorers of law and tradition who would put Stannis on the throne. Stannis the Mannis, they call him, although if he married a Florent, I imagine he has a right to show other women what sort of manhood he has. They are not a family known for their looks. So if he flaunts his manhood outside his marriage bed, I salute him.”

Brienne turned red upon an instant.

“And then… and then!  Why, I heard tell that some in the Stormlands say that Storm’s End is the seat of the Baratheon prince just as Dragonstone was the seat of the Targaryen heir.  They claim that Robert bypassed Stannis by appointing Renly the lord of Storm’s End. They say that if the rumors and lies and slander surrounding Joffrey and Tommen are truth, then Renly is the proper choice for king.  So many idiots, all making ridiculous claims.” Tyrion paused dramatically before giving Brienne a long look.

“And the most ridiculous of all is that Joffrey or Tommen are Lannister and not Baratheon. One only need to look at them to see the truth.” 

Jaime was dying.  To say even this much was high treason, and Tyrion was putting himself and Jaime and Castle Lyanna at risk with this stunt.

Brienne grabbed the end of her bedpost and sat.  “Such rumors fly?”

“Lies. Slander.” Tyrion waved his hand dismissively. “So many fools believe words that would get them sent to the block and their heads displayed over King’s Landing on a spike. But men are fools, and rumors of discontent spread. I have no doubt Lord Stark remains in the Red Keep to quell such foolishness, not–as some say–as a hostage against the North’s good behavior and the surrender of Myrcella and Tommen.”

Jaime rubbed a hand over his face.  His brother was an idiot. And Jaime had not said even half that. Tyrion was pulling rumors out of the ether. Or making them up from the gasses that passed from his ass.

“I see,” Brienne said slowly. “And what say the North to these treasonous slanders?”

Jaime sighed.  Tyrion had already forced them into a corner, so it was no loss to tell her what Benjen and Robb Stark would soon announce to all the Lords Paramount.  “The North understands that some have questions regarding the line of succession, and the only proper solution is a Great Council where each may state their case.”

Brienne looked surprised. “That is honorable.”

“Did you expect something less than honor from the North? Northmen eat and drink honor with their ale,” Tyrion said. “Unless they are away from home. Then I fear the last war left many a Northern bastard carrying a southron name. War brings out the worst in men, which is why we encourage people to travel soon before rumors drive men onto the roads. You cannot expect honor from anyone during such storms.”

Brienne’s expression darkened. “I do not expect any part of the realm to cleve to honor when it conflicts with self interest. 

“That is a uniquely pessimistic view,” Tyrion said, and he looked truly surprised.

“It is realistic, and I must be a realist to survive in a world that has no place for me,” Brienne said plainly. Even Tyrion seemed too caught off guard to respond.  She stripped off her cote and picked up a manly tunic before walking toward the door. “I must speak with Lord Benjen.”

Jaime retreated from her path, allowing her to leave while he and Tyrion were still in her room. With her gone, it felt even more improper because it was even more obvious that this was the chamber of a lady.

“She is quite remarkable,” Tyrion said.  From him, that was high praise.

“Out,” Jaime said, his hand on the door. “We should not be in a lady’s chamber.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever before heard you speak of her as a lady.”  

“I call her Lady Brienne.”

“With the same tone you use to call me a shitstain,” Tyrion said as he left the chamber.  Jaime followed and closed the door to Lady Brienne’s chamber.

Chapter Twenty-One

“What was your opinion of the Flying Dragon?” Lord Wylis asked Tomman. Lord Wylis was a large man with heavy jowls and a large smile, but people told her that his girth was nothing compared to his father, Lord Wyman, who was the Master of Coin in King’s Landing.  Wylis loved talking about his father, and Myrcella could feel the affection Wylis had for his family. It made her sad in the same way she grew sad watching the Starks. She and Tommen never had a family that cared for each other that way. She could look forward to marrying Robb and building a loving family, but she worried for Tommen.  

He wrinkled his nose and seemed to think for a long time. Myrcella wondered if he had always seemed like a quiet child only because no one gave him time to collect his thoughts. He was nothing like their father who spoke without thinking, and Myrcella thought that a good thing.  “I am surprised they fly a banner with a dragon on it,” Tommen said. He looked at Wylis like he was expecting to be chastised.  Even after all these weeks in White Harbor and before that, a year at Winterfell, he still expected to be told he was wrong.

Myrcella exchanged a look with Ser Bywater who seemed just as sad at her brother’s hesitance.

“I assume your father the king has read his histories well enough that he would like that dragon,” Lord Wylis said. “House Toland chose the dragon to commemorate a victory over the Targaryens before Dorne came into the seven kingdoms. I imagine King Robert appreciates that story.”

Tommen’s smile was shy, but it came to him quicker than it had in the past. “I imagine he would drink to the tale.”

Wylis laughed. “That he would, my prince.” He invited Tommen to walk with him with a gesture, and Tommen glanced at Myrcella. She nodded for him to go with Wylis. She would walk behind with Ser Bywater and let Tommen practice speaking to the heir of a major house. 

“How many houses have female heirs like Lady Valena?” Tommen asked.

“Only houses in Dorne. In the rest of Westeros, a woman will only be heir until she marries and then her husband will take the position.”

“And a man may take an heir’s name to continue the family name,” Tommen said, showing he remembered his lessons.  “But do the men of Westeros trade fairly with female heirs?”

Wylis sucked air through his teeth, his good humor fading. “Many do not, my prince.”

“Then why would Lady Valena travel with the Flying Dragon?”

“Many heirs want to know the family business. They will temporarily take roles that are not appropriate to their station to ensure they can run the family once the lord dies, although in this case Lady Valena will take over for her mother, Lady Nymella who runs Ghost Hill, their ancestral home.” He walked toward the great hall, Tommen dwarfed by his impressive size.

Tommen looked up at him. “She traded foodstuffs. Could she not get a better price in the Reach, and that would be a much shorter and safer voyage.”

Myrcella loved that the Manderlys were so willing to tutor Tommen and that Tommen seemed to be understanding not only the numbers involved in trading, but the politics as well. She agreed with her brother that something strange was happening that Dorne was sailing so far from their hot home to trade dried fruits and candied nuts and jars of preserves.

“The Reach and Dorne have a difficult history full of atrocities with women raped and cities burned on both sides,” Wylis said. “The Reach is full of those who want more than the gods have given them and those who resent anyone who has a single gold coin more than them.”

Myrcella rather thought that characterization was unfair, but the Manderlys were no friends to the Reach, even hundreds and hundreds of years after their family had been stripped of their ancestral home and driven out by the Gardeners who feared the wealth the Manderly family accumulated. The Gardeners had not been as honorable as the Starks. She suspected the Manderlys held far more gold than the Starks, and yet Lord Stark had nothing but fondness for the family and he had even arranged for Lord Wyman to become Master of Coin.

“Have there been accusations in the previous few years?” Tommen asked as they climbed the stairs.

“No, my prince.”

“Has Dorne sailed to White Harbor often?”

“They come tolerably often, although that only started three or four years ago,” Wylis said.

Tommen stopped and his head tilted like he was one of his kittens who had spotted something curious.  “What happened three or four years ago?”

Wylis looked down and smiled broadly. “That is a mystery that only those from Dorne could solve, and those from Dorne do not easily part with information. It is their greatest trade good, and it would cost more gold than we could afford. However, it is wise of you to notice such patterns, my prince.”

Tommen blushed and grinned so broadly that his dimples deepened.

Wylis rested a hand on Tommen’s shoulder for a moment before he started climbing again, his breath heavy as they approached the level of their grand hall. Most families had it on the main floor of the keep or castle, but the Manderlys built their castle on a hill and then built the main hall on a higher level so the balcony looked over the city and then the storm tossed sea and all the boats coming into the docks with their white sails and banners snapping in the wind.  New Castle was not as large as the Red Keep or Winterfell, but in some ways, Myrcella thought it was better.

Wylis paused on the last landing before their destination. “It is also possible that she heard you had traveled to White Harbor. The Dorne keep their spies everywhere, and you may have drawn her to the harbor.”

“Me?” Tommen was startled.

Wylis’ grin turned sly. “Aye. A prince of the realm is available to talk to. She could come and judge you for herself.”

“Judge me? Like for…” Tommen looked panicked. Myrcella had not thought him aware of the game of marriages, but perhaps he knew more than he spoke on.

“Not for herself. You are too young, my prince. While Benjen Stark has lowered the age for women to start eyeing men, a woman of Lady Valena’s age wants someone who can father children now. However, she has a younger sister named Lady Teora who people say is beautiful and kind. But they also say she falls into silences and sometimes has dreams that bother her greatly. I imagine Lady Valena and her mother seek a good match, someone who might have the ear of the king, but also someone who would be kind to a delicate woman.”

“I don’t have the ear of the king,” Tommen said softly.

“You may some day, my prince.”

Tommen shook his head, and Myrcella silently agreed. When Joffrey took the throne, no one would have his ear, not even their mother. Mother thought Joffrey doted on her, but he doted only as long as she provided something he wanted.  That was fair because her favors and her approval only came when Joffrey made their mother the center of his universe. Now that Myrcella had seen happier children–both the Stark and Manderly children–she saw how unhealthy the relationship had grown. 

Wylis smiled sadly and urged Tommen to finish climbing the stairs.  “Is that why you invited us to visit? Did you want to meet me because of Wylla?”

Myrcella swallowed a laugh as she thought of shy Tommen with the vivacious, loud Lady Wylla with her green hair. While Myrcella admired the girl and envied her bravery in speaking her mind, Tommen would wither if he were to come home to such a wife, and Garlan Tyrell had Wynafryd’s attention, leaving no other Manderly children. Given how Garlan and Wynafryd looked at each other, Myrcella would not be surprised if Lord Wyman and Lord Mace were not already in talks.

“No, my prince. As you can tell from the wagon of goods your sister sent on to Winterfell, we only thought of the advantage to our merchants.”

Myrcella laughed.  “I should invite my mother. Your shops would have no goods remaining.” That was assuming that her mother would deign to step foot in White Harbor.  Myrcella’s father talked about how much he looked forward to travelling to the North for her wedding, but every time, her mother would wrinkle her nose.

“My merchants would appreciate that, princess,” Wylis said. He had reached the top of the stair, but then he stopped.  “Father?”

“Wylis,” a man’s voice said.  Myrcella came up the last few steps and saw Lord Wyman Manderly standing in the broad corridor, at least that’s who she assumed he was based on the girth. He caught Lord Wylis in an embrace. 

“It’s good to have you home, father.” Wylis sounded sincere, even though the return of his father meant that he lost much of his authority.

“It’s good to be home,” Lord Wyman said.  Then he turned and offered a bow to first Tommen and then Myrcella.  “My prince, my princess, I am very sorry to carry the bad news to your ears, but the king has died.”

Myrcella heard the words, but for long seconds, her mind could not make sense of them. Her father. Her father had died. He was too large. Too strong.

“How?” Tommen whispered.

“An alemaster brewed strong ale incorrectly. His head now decorates a pike in the Red Keep and the alehouse was burned. Your father and several other lords of the realm are gone.”

Myrcella staggered to the side of the hall and collapsed into a chair.

“Myrcella!” Tommen shouted, and then he was at her side, grabbing her hands.  Their father was gone.  Their father whose laugh was large enough to fill a room and who would buy them trinkets even if he could never find words of love. Their father was gone.  Myrcella could not imagine a world where the Red Keep existed without Robert Baratheon. The rest of the family orbited around her father and he was the permanent, unchangeable rock on which the family stood.

“Stand back, my prince. Let her get air.” Lord Wyman sat on the chair next to her.  “The realm will miss your father, and I fear without him, men will not keep the king’s peace, princess. You and the prince must make a choice quickly because Lord Stark has ordered the North to close.”

“What? Why?” Tommen asked.

Wylis looked equally surprised, so this was not something planned. That meant something had happened unexpectedly. Myrcella had grown up watching her mother and father move around each other. Her mother would aggravate her father so he would rail and shout, and the next day, she would demand an apology by way of silks and lace. Her father would compare her mother to Lyanna Stark’s strength or Catelyn Tully’s loyalty in order to drive her away, and then he would drink and dance with strange women without his wife’s eyes on him. When one of them did something unexpectedly, it was almost always to move the other.

Was the same true in the great movements of houses? Myrcella didn’t know enough and she dare not leave to talk to Ser Bywater who was, by far, the person most likely to give her honest and uncomfortable truths.

Lord Wyman sighed heavily and shifted his large girth in his chair. “With so many lords dead, the kingdom is in disarray and Prince Joffrey… Lord Stark fears he will not be able to keep the lords in check. Instability is likely.”

Myrcella glanced toward Ser Bywater who stood by the wall guarding, always guarding.  His expression was grim, so this was likely not an overreaction on the parts of Lords Stark and Wyman.

“What decision must we make, Lord Wyman?” Myrcella asked, her chest aching with the emotions she tried to hold back, at least until she could get to her private rooms.

“If you wish to return to your mother in the Red Keep, you must set out quickly. There are ships from the Westerlands here who will ferry you home, but you should travel before people become disquieted. Soon, travel will be unwise.”

“We don’t have to go home, do we?” Tommen asked in alarm.

Myrcella opened her mouth, but she didn’t know. “Do we?” she asked Lord Wyman. Just because he posed the option as a choice didn’t mean that they had another.

“You do not, Princess.  Prince Tommen, you may stay in the North, but White Harbor would be the first place an invader might look to.  You should travel back to Winterfell as quickly as possible.”

“There are no Ironborn on this side of Westeros,” Myrcella said, unsure about who would attack such a large and fortified position.

“Untrue, princess.  Crow’s Eye and his ship the Silence have been seen in the Summer Sea and the Narrow Sea. He is fearless and without mercy. Balon is unlikely to rebel again after being put down so recently, but Euron Greyjoy never surrendered. And anyone who might think to rebel would find both you and Prince Tommen valuable hostages.”

“That won’t happen,” Ser Bywater said darkly, and a shiver went down Myrcella’s spine.

“A knight or lord can die in service to his liege, but he cannot promise safety,” Wyman said in a voice that was almost gentle. “If you want to stay, take your wagons and your horses and ride North while the roads are still safe.”

“We cannot,” Myrcella said. “We sent the wagons and half the horses back to Winterfell with supplies for the royal family.” Myrcella had loaded it not only with silks and laces and velvets for Sansa to choose for her maiden cloak but also with preserved fruits and spices and a hundred luxuries she’d found at White Harbor that she wanted to share with her new family.  “Can you lend us wagons?”

Lord Wyman grimaced. “Not for at least a month. Lord Stark has given word to close the Neck, so I must send men and supplies to Moat Cailin. I cannot slow the task I was given, even for you, princess.”

“We understand,” Ser Bywater said. “When your wagons or ours return, we will move the prince and princess then.”

“So we don’t have to go back?” Tommen asked, his tone brightening.

“I will send a raven to Mother, expressing our condolences but saying we will stay. I have a betrothal and you have instruction. Father will want us to honor both.”

Tommen pressed his lips together, but that was his usual reaction when Myrcella mentioned their father. For some reason, he had never been kind to either of his sons. With Myrcella he had been awkward and more likely to spend coin than invest in kind words, but Myrcella had never doubted her father loved her. She didn’t understand why he had struggled so much more with Joffrey and Tommen. Maybe it was because he saw them more as Mother’s sons than his own. They did take after her so closely that there was little room left for any of Father in them. Even now that Tommen was developing as a swordman, Myrcella could not see their father’s aggression or power. Tommen was all about grace and speed. He fought more like Arya than the other men.

“Prince, Princess, I regret that I must take my heir from you. We must discuss logistics for how to deploy our men.”

“Then we shall excuse ourselves.” Myrcella stood, happy to have any excuse to return to her rooms where she might weep in private. She desperately wished she was in White Harbor right now so she could go to Robb who would sit with her in some shaded corner of the castle and make her smile. Instead, she had to be the strong one. And she would be until they could get home to Winterfell.

Chapter Twenty-Two

When someone rapped on the door to his suite, Ned moved to open it.  He was not surprised to see a half-dozen Lannister guards, hands on the hilts of their swords. He was surprised to see Lord Tywin.

Ned stepped backward into the sitting room. Unlike the small chamber he’d been given from the central towers, this room had an ample sitting room to entertain guests, a generous bedroom, and windows that overlooked the guard house and training yard so if he decided to use an alternative escape, he would be spotted immediately.

Ned didn’t reach for his sword because he had no illusions about how that would end. He needed Tywin to see him as being useful and a minimal danger.

Tywin nodded, his expression cold. “Good morn.  Please hand your sword to Ser Othen.”

Ned hesitated.  When he’d gotten on the ship with Bronze Yohn, he’d known this was the likely outcome. Still, yielding made his guts knot and he could feel the ghost of a sharp blade ready to cut into the back of his neck.

“I had thought we would pretend longer.”  It had been several weeks, but Tywin had kept his distance and allowed Ned an illusion of freedom as he attended funeral services in the Great Sept and visited the godswood. But now the game was changing. He had thought Tywin would want him in the audience for Joffrey’s crowning, but perhaps he feared what Ned might do. He unfastened the scabbard and handed it to the Westerland soldier.

“I fear we are running out of time for pretense,” Tywin said.

“Come. Sit. Perhaps you can send someone for food and we can break our fast,” Ned moved to the table set in front of his window. After sitting, he watched the wariness in Tywin’s gaze.  “I can hardly fight my way through the Red Keep. I am not fool enough to move against you while I am here.”

“And yet I have heard of the feral rage of Northerners most of my life,” Tywin countered.

Ned hated playing this game, but play it he would.  “Many are feral.  If you tried to lock a door on Lord Umber or Tormund, I have no doubt they’d take the nearest piece of furniture and bash anyone they could reach.  But Lord Bolton is far more of your nature. He will plot and plan for years. Generations, even. You cannot dress every Northman in the same shirt, any more than every Westerlands man is ruthless enough to kill man, woman, and child to make a point.”

Tywin waved the guard away. Ned assumed they were just outside the door, ready to answer any cry for help. Tywin would not need them, not against Ned. He could not win this battle with his hands, and if he had to die to leave his family in a better position, he would without complaint. The gods had given him more life than he had a right to.

Tywin settled across from Ned. “You speak of Robert’s legitimate son, but you did not name Joffrey as that son.”

“Robert believed Joffery to be his true heir,” Ned said. “However, my beliefs and Robert’s have little impact on how the rest of the kingdom acts, and some favor chaos. Believing rumors allows them to sow the seeds of chaos that would benefit them.”

“Is that why the North is closed?”

Ned kept all emotion from his face. If the North had closed, then Wyman had reached White Harbor. His family should be safe deep in the heart of the North, so now he only needed to prevent idiot southrons from killing each other for a cursed throne.

“I will not have my family or men dragged into chaos designed by someone’s rumors.”

Tywin sat taller.  “Do you believe these rumors are a plot?”

Ned knew they were. He suspected Hightower and Dayne had arranged them, but he needed Tywin to look in a different direction.  “Have you heard of a fellow called Littlefinger–Petyr Baelish?”

“No.”

Ned nodded slowly.  “He told people in the Vale that he had slept with both Tully girls before their weddings. I know Cat was a maid, so I have every reason to believe Lysa was as well, but he hoped to spread chaos and use that to find who might be weak in their loyalty to the Arryns.  He rose so high that Robert asked about appointing him Master of Coin.”

Tywin tilted his head to the side. “Do you think he would dare spread such a rumor, and how would it benefit him?”

“I know not,” Ned said, “I do not try to understand dishonest men.  In the north, I have a bannerman–Roose Bolton. Bolton wanted to use rape during the rebellion. His family favors flaying.  Despite this, he sent his trueborn heir south and had him tutored in lute and harp as well as the tilt field.”

Tywin sat across from Ned and leaned back in his chair. “How would rumors in the Red Keep benefit him?”

“In truth, they may not. However, he needs a wife for his son, one with no brother to inherit her father’s keep. But right now, too many lords have sons. A war would change that. Bolton and Baelish and a hundred other men might seek to spread these rumors because a stable realm favors those who already have power and instability favors those who want more.”

“Why would Bolton seek a good daughter with lands? He has a castle and lands, greatly expanded lands, after Robert returned the Gift to the North.” Tywin looked curious rather than obstreperous, so Ned assumed his words were reaching fertile ground.

“He fears his lands will be overrun by this unseen enemy in the North, and instead of strengthening his keep and the North as a whole as am I, he seeks to place his family in the south where they will be safer, preferably the Vale where land is easily defended.”

“Is this threat to the North that great?”

Ned considered his words carefully.  He needed Tywin to take his words seriously, and speaking of greenseeing or Others would not engender trust.  “Aye. Whole towns have vanished, killed down to the last child. I suspect that whoever is moving north of the wall will not risk being exposed until they are ready to move, but any force that can defeat wildlings so handily is a threat to take seriously. They are feral and powerful fighters, yet none survive when our enemy sweeps through.”

“And you have no information on who it is?”

“None. No scout has survived.  The only word we have is from scouts who saw them from afar and they say the movement kicked up so much snow that all they could see was a great cloud that filled the horizon.”

Tywin took a long breath. The hook was baited.

“This is why I am unconcerned about whatever conflicts you have. Selfish men will always push the realm toward chaos. You will protect the good name of your daughter’s children. One of those children is betrothed to my heir, so I do not begrudge you this effort. I have no interest in the throne or who inherits it.”

Tywin’s gaze was hard. “You speak as if you think I must fight to keep Joffrey on the throne. He is the rightful king–the son of Robert Baratheon.”

“Yet Stannis and Renly are absent.  The two men who both have claims if Robert died without a son are absenting themselves from King’s Landing.  You and Stannis are welcome to throw men at one another. I have another war to prepare for.” Even this was enough to name Ned a traitor–he was calling the supposed king’s legitimacy into question and naming those who might want to deny it. 

“You have sworn allegiance to the throne. If King Joffrey calls the banners, you are obliged to gather a host.”

“If I do, I leave the North vulnerable to whatever enemies wait to sweep down on us.  Then you will be trapped between them and the Baratheon brothers.” Ned knew Stannis and Renly would never unite, but if he could worry Tywin more, he would.

“We can move to reinforce the North once the crown is secure.”

“My orders to my heir were to keep all soldiers in the North and work to reinforce the Wall.  For three hundred years, the Wall has been neglected and ignored. We now race to feed the brothers in black and rebuild the fortifications before the enemy appears.”

Tywin’s concern vanished under a cold disregard. “What could bring down the wall?”

“Nothing,” Ned lied. He’d seen in his last lifetime how easily it had fallen.  “However, it can be scaled and if enough enemies attack from the south, they can throw open the castle gates.”

That seemed to make Tywin consider his next words with more care. Either that or he hoped a long silence would unnerve Ned.  It would not. “What will it take to get your host moving south?” Tywin finally asked.

“A Great Council. Let Stannis speak in front of all the lords and be told that the throne is not his. He is fond enough of laws that he would accept the ruling.”

“And it would cast doubt on Joffrey for the rest of his reign. He would be the king who had to ask permission to rule because his parentage was in question. Out of the question. Name another price.”

“I would say your host moving north and a full invasion of the Lands of Always Winter to confront the enemies of the North, but your men would face bitter cold, a dearth of food and few sources of fuel. You will strain our food and strip resources from our small folk, so for now we must remain as we are. The North will prepare for whatever stalks the far north and you will need to tend to the throne.”

“You will write and have Jaime, Tommen and Myrcella come to King’s Landing,” Tywin ordered. Ned assumed that meant he surrendered on the issue of Joffrey’s legitimacy.  Cersei would have pushed harder. She had pushed harder. But Tywin was much more of a pragmatist and much smarter than his idiot daughter.

Ned leaned back in his chair and this time he used silence as his weapon.  “I will not,” he said after a silence that mirrored the length of the one Tywin had allowed earlier. “As long as I am hostage, my word will hold my son in Winterfell, but that is all the boon you will gain from holding me.”

“I could force you to write the letter.”

“Force or forgery will do you no good. I required a vow from my son–that he would listen to no orders unless I returned to issue them.  Even if I did return to Winterfell and order them to return, Jaime is a man grown. He will not obey when he has no interest in doing so. And Tommen is a prince. His word carries more weight than mine.”

Tywin snorted. “As Joffrey’s word carries more than mine?” he demanded.

Ned allowed a small smile to grace his lips.  “Children can be led, Lord Hand.  However, Tommen has spoken of the harms his brother has done him. He fears him, and I will not force a child to return to a home where he lives in fear.”

“A pretty excuse for holding the crown prince hostage.”

“A truth, Lord Hand. I spoke against you when you called for the deaths of Rhaegar’s children, and I will speak against anyone who wants to harm Tommen.  He has gold cloaks at Winterfell. He is learning waterdancing from a Bravosi sword master. He takes lessons with my children.  He is no hostage, but I will not order him to return to King Joffrey’s side.”

Tywin rubbed a hand over his face. “You are quite vexing, Lord Eddard.”

“I am,” Ned agreed. “As are you. I believe it is the nature of being Wardens. We must act for our people, even against our own interests. You could ease your vexation by releasing me to sail north.”

“Or I could free you to ride to Stannis’s side, swelling his host with your men. And the North appears to have far more men than I expected.”

“The sort of folk settled at Whale Song would not rise for me if I marched them South,” Ned said, “and my bannermen are loath to get involved in a fight for a throne they don’t care about. I have promised them that I will only ride if it is to a Grand Counsel where every lord can put forward an argument and the small folk will be left undisturbed by the march of armies.”

“Which means you have discussed the issue of succession with them.”

“I have refused to discuss the issue, Lord Hand,” Ned corrected him. “But people are the same everywhere and a good story is one often told.  I told my bannermen as I told you–this is an issue for either Southrons to fight over or for lords to debate. I will not march my army south of the Neck for anyone–not Joffrey and certainly not Stannis or Renly who have clouded the issue of succession between themselves. You may hold me here until I die of age, but that will not change. And if the North falls, you will find a strange enemy has a strong foothold to take all of Westeros.”

“It is convenient that you have such a strong enemy at a time when the true king needs your banners.”

“It is not convenient at all.  The men and women of Whale Song are Free Folk–former wildlings who have agreed to live by some of our rules, but they will not bend the knee. That means I have tens of thousands of men and women in my borders who will not answer my calls. They are not my bannermen. At best, they will fight to protect the land I allow them to live on, but if they seek more land than I grant them, I will have a war within my own borders. In fact, I suspect that some descendant of mine will curse my name for setting up this civil war.  But I need fighters, and I refuse to leave women and children to die.”

“If you are telling the truth, your honor is greater than your common sense.”

“Mayhaps,” Ned agreed.  He had stopped allowing honor to dictate his every decision. He would never again warn Cersei of danger out of some fear that her and her children would die. However, honor was still more important to him than this game that Tywin played.

“I could throw you in the black cells.”

“Aye,” Ned agreed, his skin crawling at the thought of enduring that again. But to protect his family, he would.  He would never trade his freedom or comfort at the cost of his children.  “You could drag me to the Sept of Baylor and take my head in front of the crowd. But that would only earn you the enmity of the North and potentially of Jaime himself.  The years have softened him, but if you take action against the lord who sheltered him, he would not soon forgive you.”

Tywin leaned back in his chair and studied Ned for a long time. His gaze was far more calculating than the one he had worn earlier. “And you say you do not play the game of thrones.”

“I do not,” Ned said. “I hope never to see kin on the throne.” Ned would do much to keep Jon off it. He loved the boy, and he would not have his kin exposed to the rot and poison of this city.

“Yet you marry your heir to a princess.”

“When the conflict is over and Queen Cersei can travel north to see her daughter join my son, then I will see my son marry a beautiful and clever woman who is the daughter of my dearest friend. I would want to join my family to Robert’s regardless of the throne.”

“So my granddaughter must languish in a frozen hell that you claim is on the verge of being invaded by a powerful and unknown force?”

“She will have a husband who adores her–one who would protect her at all costs,” Ned corrected him.  “You will be kin to the North and that will keep my bannermen from wanting to remove the new Lady Stark’s brother from the throne.  Robert was a poor player in the game of thrones, but I assume you can see the advantage Myrcella’s marriage has bought. That is even without considering the new wealth found in the North.”

“Vexing,” Tywin said, his voice more thoughtful. “I had thought you would either attack without care or threaten me.”

Ned thought about how he had charged into the throne room with a document signed by King Robert. He’d tried to arrest Cersei and Joffrey and he’d ended up with a knife to the throat.  “Northmen appreciate directness. That does not mean we must be fools.”

Tywin nodded.  “You are confined to these rooms. I will have maids care for the rooms and bring meals, but there will be guards at all times.”

“I assume the guards will keep Cersei out as well as ensure that I remain where you have left me,” Ned said.

Tywin laughed. “Do you fear a woman?”

“That woman? Yes. She is a fool who believes herself clever. She would bring the kingsguard here and order me beaten or killed all to get her daughter back, and the only result would be freeing Robb from my orders. Then he could march south. Then my bannermen might be more interested in the wars for King’s Landing than the danger to the north. The Free Folk might even march if they felt an obligation to avenge me. I know not how they see their duty.  It would not end well for you, the Westerlands or the North, but Cersei would never see that she had set the fire that burned her own house.”

The first time Ned had lived this life, Tywin had never seemed to truly understand the threat his daughter posed, but now he studied Ned, his forehead creased. “I will issue an order that none is allowed other than I or the maids I have chosen.”

Ned nodded. “I will trust my security to your good sense.”

Tywin stood.  “Perhaps we can break our fast together on another morn. For now I must return to the small council. They had hoped to hear that you would bring your bannermen south.”

“They had hoped that I was fool enough to leave the North without issuing orders to my heir.”

Tywin pursed his lips. “They did. And they hoped that my reputation would be enough to encourage you to write a missive ordering your bannermen to the king’s side.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you.”

Tywin studied Ned.  “If you are correct about an enemy to the North, I would rather have an ally who can plan appropriately.”

Ned nodded his head toward Tywin.  “I wish you well in your wars, Lord Hand.”  Ned wondered how this would change the war. He suspected that Stannis would still kill Renly. And if Tywin learned that Jon was in Essos with Arthur Dayne, Ned was going to lose his head again.  He just hoped he had done enough to leave his family in a better place this time.

Tywin left, and Ned looked around at his new prison.  It was significantly better than the black cells, but something still crawled under his skin at the idea that he was trapped here.  He had once died here. Sansa had suffered. Arya had starved. His whole household had their heads mounted on spikes.  He would rather face Others than the faded ghosts in this place.

But the gods had given him this chance and he was no craven to avoid his own fears at the cost of others.