The days in King's Landing grew hotter with each passing sunrise. Some fools whispered that the lingering heat meant an eternal summer was coming; others insisted it would be the last summer Westeros would ever see. Eddard Stark did not concern himself with such talk, but he felt the air grow heavier every day, as if foreshadowing the troubles gathering around him.
Littlefinger had become a frequent visitor to his chambers—far too frequent for Eddard's comfort. Petyr Baelish's sly smile and unfathomable motives always set Eddard on edge. He knew he could not trust the man. Yet, frustratingly, he could trust everyone else in King's Landing even less. And as Catelyn's childhood friend, Littlefinger had provided some information—though never without benefit to himself.
When Eddard entered his solar that afternoon, he found Littlefinger already seated by the window, lounging lazily as he watched the White Knights spar in the courtyard below. The pristine cloaks of the Kingsguard glimmered beneath the sun, white as fresh-fallen snow. Their armor gleamed like mirrors.
"If old Ser Barristan's mind were as sharp as his sword," Littlefinger said lightly, "our Small Council meetings would be far more interesting."
"Ser Barristan's valor and integrity are second to none in this city," Eddard replied, unable to hide the respect he had grown to feel for the aged Captain of the Kingsguard.
The thought drifted through his mind—If only all men in King's Landing were like Barristan Selmy. But Robert had warned him often: the capital was full of liars and flatterers, and nowhere were they more concentrated than in the Small Council. Jon Arryn was dead, Barristan was old, Stannis had fled to Dragonstone, and as for himself… Eddard could hardly imagine how he was supposed to clean up this festering mess.
Littlefinger shrugged. "His dullness is also unmatched. But I still think he can put up a decent show at the tourney. Last year he unhorsed the Hound with a longspear, and it's been only four years since he last won the champion's purse."
Eddard had no patience for tourneys. He saw them as harmless entertainments—distractions for fools. Yet he also knew tourney victories revealed skilled riders, and Robert had made his name wielding a warhammer in brutal melees, not graceful jousts. Battlefields, not parades, were where Robert excelled.
Eddard got straight to the point. "Why have you come today?"
Littlefinger placed a hand over his heart dramatically. "Why, my lord, I promised Lady Catelyn I would help you investigate. I keep my promises."
Eddard studied him carefully. What did Petyr Baelish want from him this time? Littlefinger was always several moves ahead, playing some unseen game. He had already crafted a fortune in this city. Whatever he offered now, he offered for a price—whether spoken or hidden.
"What I've been investigating are people, not events," Littlefinger corrected him smoothly. "Four people, in fact. Tell me, Lord Stark… have you considered questioning the Hand's attendants?"
Eddard stiffened. "How did you know I was considering that? Weren't the extra four attendants said to have left with Lady Lysa?"
He narrowed his eyes. If Pycelle was untrustworthy—and Eddard was increasingly certain he was—then what of Littlefinger? What exactly was this cunning man after?
Lady Lysa Arryn had packed her household entirely when she fled to the Eyrie. Lord Jon's maester, steward, captain of the guard, knights, servants—all had followed her. Or so Eddard believed.
"Don't glare at me like that, my lord," Littlefinger said pleasantly, unbothered. "As master of coin, I have my own channels. And I was once a ward under Lord Arryn, remember?"
Eddard pretended understanding, though mistrust still clouded his thoughts. For now, Littlefinger remained a useful source.
"No, it was most of them who left," Littlefinger continued. "Not all. A kitchen maid—pregnant, by the look of it—married Lord Renly's stable boy in haste. A stable worker joined the City Watch. A waiter was dismissed for theft. And one more…" He paused for effect. "Lord Arryn's attendant remained."
"His attendant?" Eddard felt a flicker of hope. That man would have been closest to Jon, privy to his movements and concerns. Yet this attendant was still new to the Red Keep and had little to offer so far. Eddard hated that he had begun relying on Littlefinger's intelligence.
"Ser Hugh of the Vale," Littlefinger said lightly. "The king knighted him soon after Jon's death."
"Then I'll summon them all at once," Eddard declared.
"Good, good." Littlefinger's smile widened triumphantly. Stupid direwolf, his eyes seemed to say. This is not your den. This is my game.
"My lord," Petyr said suddenly, beckoning him closer, "come to the window. Look."
"Look at what?" Eddard asked irritably. "Am I supposed to admire the spies watching me?"
Petyr laughed in delight. "You continue to surprise me. Excellent, my lord. That is how one survives in King's Landing. But I fear you still underestimate how… crowded this game is."
He pointed discreetly. "That young man sharpening his blade near the armory? Varys's spy. And that guard leaning against the western wall above the stables? The queen's loyal man."
Eddard swore under his breath. "I knew things were bad… but not this bad. Even so, thank you for the warning."
"Oh, think nothing of it," Littlefinger replied cheerfully. "This is the nature of the Red Keep. Spies nest in its walls like rats in a granary. Why else did you think I hid Lady Catelyn in a brothel?"
Eddard winced. Every mention of cunning and trickery made him feel as though thorns pressed into his ears.
Littlefinger noticed. He always noticed. "My lord, if you're going to pursue this matter, perhaps you should send someone you trust completely to search for these remaining attendants—and do so quietly."
"That is not a bad idea." Eddard called out as Littlefinger turned to leave. "I am… grateful for your help. Perhaps I have been too harsh in distrusting you."
Littlefinger looked over his shoulder, amused. "Lord Stark, you learn far too slowly. Distrusting me is the wisest thing you have done since you fell from your horse."
When Littlefinger was gone, Jon—his young attendant—entered the solar.
"Showdown," Eddard muttered under his breath. The word had been echoing in his thoughts all morning. A confrontation was coming. The more he uncovered, the more he felt disaster looming over him. When would the final moment arrive? Would he be ready? He hoped so. Like a man climbing a mountain, he could not afford to slip.
Jon bowed. "He comes often, my lord."
"Yes," Eddard agreed quietly, gesturing for Jon to sit.
"What do you think of him?" he asked.
Jon hesitated. "He is both very good… and very bad. Lord Petyr is witty, charming, friendly, and many speak well of him. Yet many others curse his name."
"Oh?" Eddard leaned forward. "Tell me."
Jon swallowed nervously. "From the information I've gathered… Littlefinger's reputation is hardly spotless. The knights of the Vale call him a schemer—a man who gains favor with women and flatters Lady Lysa shamelessly. They say he is a freak, unfit for knighthood, with no noble lineage. His brothels are what give him power, helping him find coin for the crown each day. Had Lady Lysa not supported him, he would be a nobody. And… and…"
"Speak, child," Eddard urged.
Jon flushed. "My lord… I must speak plainly. Many whisper that Lord Petyr… and Lady Lysa… are too close. And Lord Petyr has never denied improper relations with House Tully. In fact, he even… he even boasted of—"
He stopped, mortified.
"What is it?" Eddard asked sharply.
Jon's face twisted as though he had swallowed something bitter.
"The rumors concern Lady Catelyn as well, do they not?" Eddard said quietly.
Jon nodded miserably.
Eddard's jaw tightened. Littlefinger—spreading lewd gossip about Catelyn? The thought filled him with cold fury.
"Damn him," Eddard muttered.
Shame tugged at him. A true Stark, a true son of the direwolf, would have cut down a man who dared insult his wife. But Eddard could not afford rage now. Duty, honor, and the fate of the realm outweighed his personal anger.
"There's something worse," Jon whispered. "Some say Lord Petyr's rise to power was arranged entirely by Lady Lysa, who begged Lord Arryn to grant him a position. But Lord Arryn was too busy to notice, and no one dared speak of it to his face."
"Enough, Jon." Eddard's voice hardened. "Such talk dishonors your fallen lord. I wanted to hear what you learned, but I do not want you carrying these scandals in your heart."
"My lord…" Jon looked distressed. "Have you ever wondered why Lord Petyr has never married? With his power and wealth, many noble families would gladly offer their daughters. Yet he avoids marriage. What is he waiting for? Or whom? This is… troubling. My lord, I believe there is poison in Lord Petyr's gifts."
Eddard regarded the boy—no, the young man—before him. Thoughtful, perceptive, observant.
"You speak wisely, Jon," he said at last, sighing. "Perhaps I made a mistake. Perhaps if I had kept you in Winterfell, your careful mind might have helped guide Robb and guard him from folly."
Jon blinked in shock at the unexpected praise.
Eddard placed a hand on his shoulder. "Come. We have work to do. The showdown approaches. We must be ready."
And in the sweltering heat of King's Landing, as shadows deepened across the Red Keep, Eddard Stark felt the mountain before him climb ever higher.
But he would climb it all the same.
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