Night fell gradually over the royal encampment.
From the direction of the great pavilion, laughter, music, and drunken shouts drifted endlessly through the air. Torches burned brightly, and the smell of roasted meat and spilled wine clung to the wind.
Yet Eddard Stark found no comfort in it.
The feast felt hollow to him—too loud, too careless, as if the realm were not already teetering on the edge of disaster.
Without drawing attention, Eddard led Jon away from the main camp. Their destination was a secluded tent, far from the noise and revelry. Because of its isolated position, it was easier to avoid prying eyes.
Jon followed silently, his expression composed but alert.
Once inside Eddard's temporary study within the Red Keep's grounds, Ghost immediately began pacing the perimeter. The direwolf moved soundlessly, nose low to the ground, ears pricked—ensuring that no one dared approach close enough to overhear.
Only when Eddard was certain they were alone did he speak.
"Do you remember how the Knight of the Vale died today?" Eddard asked quietly.
Jon nodded at once. "Gregor did it deliberately. He could have defeated the boy cleanly, but he chose the cruelest way possible."
"Yes," Eddard said gravely. "King's Landing is far more dangerous than we anticipated."
Jon lowered his voice. "I observed the tourney grounds carefully. Gregor Clegane, the Hound, and Jaime Lannister are all exceptional fighters. In addition, there are several white-cloaked knights whose backgrounds are unclear."
Jon had received systematic knightly training in the North, but he was not arrogant enough to believe himself capable of matching such men.
Eddard understood this well. The gap between individuals could be vast—and in King's Landing, that gap was often the difference between life and death.
They could not afford hesitation.
"How did things go with Ser Ando of the Vale?" Jon asked after a pause.
Eddard exhaled slowly. "Terribly—especially where Lysa is concerned."
There was no point in hiding the truth.
He had once believed Lysa Arryn might still support him in uncovering the truth behind Jon Arryn's death. Now it was painfully clear that she cared little for justice—or even stability. Instead, she seemed determined to drag everyone down with her.
Perhaps… she had never truly loved her husband at all.
"My lord," Jon said calmly, "if I may speak harshly—love can turn a woman into a monster. That is a truth known throughout the world."
Eddard closed his eyes briefly. "Yes."
Of course he knew.
Time had not erased Lysa's bitterness. She still despised Jon Arryn, and she still loved Petyr Baelish with the same destructive devotion.
Her marriage had never been born of affection.
Years ago, Petyr had been gravely wounded by Brandon Stark in a duel. Lysa had stayed by his side to nurse him—and in that time, she gave him her maidenhood. Yet even as they lay together, Petyr had called out Catelyn's name.
Soon after, Lysa discovered she was pregnant.
Lord Hoster Tully, furious beyond measure, forced her to drink moon tea. The child was lost. Petyr was sent away, and Lysa's future was decided for her.
Petyr's family held no political value.
With her honor compromised, suitable matches were scarce. Yet Lord Hoster was determined. He arranged for Lysa to wed Jon Arryn—the elderly, childless Lord of the Vale.
Jon Arryn needed the Riverlands' support during Robert's Rebellion.
And so the marriage was agreed.
Lysa and Catelyn were wed on the same day, in the same sept.
But while Catelyn's groom became Eddard Stark, Lysa's marriage became a prison.
"In our current situation," Jon said thoughtfully, "it's nearly impossible to gain meaningful support in King's Landing. Only the King favors you—but even a King is still a King."
Eddard said nothing.
The North was always at a disadvantage here. Their customs, their faith, even their speech marked them as outsiders. Financially and politically, they held no advantage.
"Damn it all," Eddard muttered. "They've truly forced me into a corner."
He did not know whom to curse—Robert, Lysa, Stannis, or the unseen hands moving pieces behind the scenes.
If not for Robert's negligence, King's Landing would never have rotted this badly.
The sense of crisis pressed heavily on his chest.
The first thing he needed to do was write to Catelyn.
But Lysa's betrayal could not be mentioned openly.
"I'll attend tomorrow's tourney," Eddard said at last. "I need to see things for myself."
Jon nodded. "Then I'll escort my fiancée back into the city. I'll make sure she's not harmed."
---
On the other side of King's Landing, the royal feast ended in quiet humiliation.
Prince Joffrey ordered Sandor Clegane to escort Sansa Stark away.
The Hound had removed his armor and now wore a red wool tunic, a snarling dog's head stitched onto his chest. By torchlight, the scars on his face looked almost molten.
Every step beside him was agony for Sansa.
This was not the gallant knight of songs.
The Hound had drunk heavily. His words slurred as he spoke, calling her a "pretty little bird" in a mocking tone.
He spoke openly—too openly.
He told her Gregor was no knight.
He told her the truth about the Vale knight's death.
"That boy today—you saw him, didn't you?" Sandor said harshly. "No money. No squires. No one to fasten his armor properly. His gorget wasn't even secured. You think Gregor didn't notice?"
Then he forced her to look at his face.
The right side was harsh but intact—sharp cheekbones, thick brows over gray eyes, a large hooked nose.
The left side was ruin.
Burned flesh. Missing ear. Cracked, leathery skin stretched over bone.
As he spoke, he told her how his brother had burned him.
When Sansa finally returned to the Red Keep, she was shaking.
Sandor seized her wrist.
"If you tell anyone what I said," he growled, "Joffrey, your sister, your father—anyone—I'll kill you."
"I won't," Sansa whispered. "I promise."
---
At dawn, Eddard sought out Ser Barristan Selmy.
Only the old knight had kept vigil through the night for the fallen Vale boy.
After exchanging quiet words, they went together to see the King.
The camp was awakening. Squires hurried about, cooks tended fires, sausages sizzled and dripped grease into the flames. Shields bearing sigils stood outside tents—Reach, Riverlands, Stormlands.
The North was scarce among them.
"The King plans to fight in today's melee," Barristan said.
Eddard grimaced.
Melees were slaughterhouses.
He remembered a tourney at Last Hearth where dozens died.
When they reached the King's tent, Robert was already drinking, shouting as attendants struggled to force his armor closed.
"Seven hells!" Robert bellowed. "Pick that up!"
When he saw Eddard, he laughed. "Look at these fools! They can't even armor a king!"
Eddard replied calmly, "It's not their fault, Robert. You're too fat."
Robert froze—then roared with laughter.
"Damn you, Ned," he said. "Why are you always right?"
---
Far away, in Myr, beneath the Wolf's Den, Qyburn reported to Gendry.
"The Spider claims Daenerys is pregnant."
Gendry frowned. "False."
"Likely," Qyburn agreed. "But rumors are Varys' true weapon."
"It will throw the Small Council into chaos," Gendry said. "Strengthen security."
He intended to deal with Varys and Illyrio—eventually.
"The situation in King's Landing is nearing collapse," Qyburn warned.
"Yes," Gendry said. "But war will come soon enough."
"If Stark stays, he will lose," Qyburn concluded. "And badly."
"Then that is his fate," Gendry said quietly.
---
Catelyn rode east through rain.
Not to Winterfell—but to the Eyrie.
The road narrowed, cliffs rose, and snow-capped peaks loomed ahead.
The most dangerous path had begun.
And Westeros marched ever closer to the storm.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)