"Carrots and apples…"
Eddard repeated the words with a tired exhale, as if the absurdity of it all pressed against his skull. So this boy—the last of the four Littlefinger claimed could help—was even more useless than the rest.
Still, Ned had no choice but to wait for Jon. He had sent the boy to gather information on the remaining three servants connected to Jon Arryn. The waiting gnawed at him. Every minute the truth avoided him was another minute Lannisters tightened their grip on King's Landing.
Jory bowed out quietly, and moments later Jon Snow stepped back into the room. His expression was calm, but the sharpness in his grey eyes—almost black in this dim light—revealed the storm stirring beneath.
"I've spoken privately with everyone," Jon reported. "Some by me, some by Mikken."
Ned nodded. "And?"
Jon exhaled slowly. "Ser Hugh was the first. Hot-tempered as a kicked mule. Refused to say much. He's grown… arrogant since being knighted. He told me that if the Hand wished to question him, he would 'politely oblige.' But he would not answer a bastard—especially not one who's ten years older and a hundred times better with a sword."
Jon's jaw tightened. That insolence clearly still bothered him.
Ned placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's alright, child. The Knights of the Vale have pride thicker than the mountains they guard."
Jon nodded, though irritation still flickered in his eyes. "Fortunately, the other two were more helpful."
"Go on."
"The kitchen girl spoke first. She said Lord Arryn read constantly, worried endlessly over his youngest son's frail health, and—" Jon hesitated. "—that he was rough with Lady Lysa."
Ned frowned deeply. "Damn it…" He knew the marriage was troubled, but hearing it painted plainly sent a prick of unease through his gut. Lysa had been a shy, big-bosomed girl once, repeatedly bullied by her father into abortions and miscarriages. A disastrous marriage to an old man had only shattered her further. Now she was as unstable as a mad cow.
Jon continued carefully, "My lord, with respect… Lady Lysa is not well. Her moods are unstable, her behavior erratic. Knights from the Vale came for the tourney—you might learn more from them."
Ned grimaced. "Perhaps."
There was something else in Jon's expression—a shadow of darker suspicion—but the boy didn't voice it. A political marriage, a broken woman entangled with Littlefinger, an over-solicitous advisor… there were too many poisonous threads.
In Winterfell, Theon often mocked Jon as 'moody,' overly sensitive to taunts and jealous of nobleborn boys. But in King's Landing, Jon's sharp senses were worth more than steel. Here, softness was death.
"And the last one?" Ned asked, leaning forward. "Did he offer anything useful?"
Jon nodded. "Yes. The stable boy—now a cart driver. He never spoke to Lord Arryn, but he hears all kitchen gossip. He said the Lord argued often with His Majesty recently. Complained about the food. Planned to send his son to Dragonstone as a foster child. Suddenly took an interest in hunting dogs. And—"
Jon paused deliberately.
"—he commissioned a new suit of armor from a master smith. Full silver plate. Falcon crest carved from sapphire. Moon of mother-of-pearl. His Majesty's brother accompanied him when choosing materials. Not Lord Renly—the other one. Lord Stannis."
Ned's brows shot upward. "Stannis?"
Jon's voice lowered. "The stable boy said Lord Arryn often rode with Stannis. Not just to the smithy. To brothels."
Ned froze.
Stannis. Brothels.
Impossible. Utterly, painfully impossible.
Jon Arryn wearing jewel-plated silver armor was already bizarre. But Stannis—grim, severe, dutiful Stannis—in a brothel? The man was incapable of humor, barely capable of warmth. He would rather swallow wildfire than enter such a place willingly.
"Stannis…" Ned whispered, thoughts racing like wildfire. It was Stannis who later accused the Lannister twins of incest. Stannis who fled to Dragonstone in silence. Stannis who trusted few, and was trusted by fewer.
Nothing made sense.
"The smithy they visited is… special," Jon added. "His Majesty's bastard apprenticed there."
Ned blinked. "Gendry—the bastard who now rebels across the Narrow Sea?"
"Yes. His master still lives in King's Landing."
Understanding dawned like a blade in Ned's mind.
Jon Arryn and Stannis had been hunting the king's bastards. But why? Bastards had no inheritance rights. Unless…
Ned swallowed the thought before it solidified.
"Anything else?"
"The stable boy doesn't know which brothel they visited," Jon replied. "Only that four attendants accompanied Lord Arryn that day. They've all returned to the Vale now."
Ned sighed heavily. "You've done well, Jon."
Truly, he had. But the picture forming was ugly. Lady Lysa, Maester Colemon, Stannis—all the people who could speak truth were far away.
Jon hesitated. "Do you wish to summon Lord Stannis back from Dragonstone?"
"Not yet," Ned muttered. "Not until I understand who he stands with."
And whether he feared the Lannisters… or something far worse.
Ned drew a deep breath. "Come. We ride to the smithy."
He reached for his grey vest—the one embroidered with the direwolf of Stark. If he was to wander openly, he would do so as the Hand of the King.
"My lord," Jon said quietly, "His Majesty has another brother."
"Don't mention him," Ned said sharply.
Renly was friendly, smiling, charming—but Ned could not read him. A few days ago, Renly had shown him a golden rose pendant with a delicate Myrish portrait of a soft-faced young girl inside—Margaery Tyrell.
"She resembles Lyanna, some say," Renly had hinted eagerly.
"She doesn't," Ned had replied, confused by the comparison.
Renly was scheming something. Ned simply didn't know what.
---
They rode through the winding Street of Steel, surrounded by sparks, hammer clangs, and the smell of molten metal. Free riders haggled over breastplates; seasoned smiths shouted over roaring fires; carts full of rusted iron rattled past. The hill grew steeper, the air hotter.
At the very top stood Tobho Mott's workshop—a grand house of wood and plaster towering above the street. Enormous ebony-and-weirwood doors carved with hunting scenes guarded the entrance, flanked by two stone knights wearing fantastical cloaks shaped like a griffon and a unicorn.
The attendants recognized Ned's bearing instantly. Tobho Mott himself came out—a slender man in black velvet, sleeves embroidered with silver hammers, a massive sapphire hanging from a heavy chain on his neck.
"If you seek armor for the Hand's tourney," Tobho said grandly, "you have come to the right place."
Ned lacked the patience to correct him.
Tobho continued boasting—his secret Qohori methods, his mastery of coloring steel, his claim of knowing shards of Valyrian techniques. The arrogance would have irritated Ned, if not for the fact that Tobho was truly one of the best.
"So," Ned said mildly, "did you forge a sapphire falcon helm for Lord Arryn?"
The smith froze.
For a long moment, the only sound was the crackling forge below. Then Tobho set down his goblet.
"Lord Hand," he said slowly, "the late Lord Arryn did visit me. With Lord Stannis. But… I did not serve them."
Ned narrowed his eyes. "Then they asked you other questions."
Tobho pouted. "Things everyone knows. I didn't even know that child was His Majesty's bastard. Nor did I know of his escape."
"Escape?" Ned pressed.
"Yes. But they only asked about the past." Tobho shrugged. "Whose child he was. How he came here. What he looked like. Why he left."
"And what did you tell them?"
"Everything I knew." Tobho's expression softened faintly. "He was diligent. Strong. His hair—thick, unruly, black as ink. His eyes—warm, deep blue. Taller than most boys, arms strong, chest strong."
Ned's heart thudded.
"Like His Majesty when he was young?"
"I don't know His Majesty's youth," Tobho admitted, "but I have seen Lord Renly. The resemblance is there. Except temperament. Lord Renly would never be a smith."
"And how did he leave?" Ned asked.
Tobho spread his hands. "Apprentices have holidays. He left one day and never returned. I never imagined he would run off and get himself beheaded. He was serious. Didn't visit prostitutes. Didn't drink. Honest boy."
"So why leave?"
Tobho leaned in, voice lowering. "King's Landing is dangerous. Think of his identity, Lord Hand. Think of who truly rules the city. Every day you see the Queen's red cloaks. Do you think they would let such a boy live? People here haven't forgotten the screams from the Red Keep."
The meaning hit Ned like a hammer.
Lannister.
Always Lannister.
Succession… everything came down to succession. But why would a bastard threaten it—unless the legitimacy of the rightful heirs was already in question?
Ned's eyes widened.
"Damn it," he breathed.
He suddenly needed to find the remaining bastards.
No matter what it cost.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)