The weather was gloomy and oppressive, the sky hanging low over King's Landing like a leaden curtain. A damp wind swept through the Red Keep, carrying with it the scent of rain and stone.
Eddard Stark walked through the outer halls of the castle, his boots echoing softly against the cold floor, and returned to the Tower of the Hand.
Perhaps this place had never truly belonged to him.
To Eddard, King's Landing felt like a borrowed coat—heavy, ill-fitting, and never meant to be worn for long. No matter how many days passed, he could not shake the feeling that he was only a transient here.
Winterfell was his home.
He entered his study and closed the door behind him. After a brief pause, he called for Jon to come in.
"Jon," Eddard said gravely once they were alone, "there is an urgent matter I must tell you in advance."
Jon straightened at once. "Yes, my lord."
"The King and I quarreled today," Eddard continued. "Badly. We are preparing to leave King's Landing and return to Winterfell."
Jon froze, his expression momentarily blank.
He had not expected matters to escalate so quickly.
The friendship between Eddard Stark and King Robert Baratheon was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. They had been brothers in all but blood, fighting side by side to overthrow the Targaryen dynasty. It was difficult to imagine that a single argument could drive such a wedge between them.
"My lord," Jon said carefully, "this is very sudden. Preparing to leave… I'm afraid it would take at least two weeks."
"I fear we do not have two weeks," Eddard replied. "I am not even certain we have a single day."
He frowned deeply. "The King was so enraged he said he would have my head mounted on a spear."
Jon's eyes widened slightly.
Eddard shook his head. "I do not truly believe Robert would harm me. He was speaking in anger."
Still, unease lingered in his heart.
Robert Baratheon had never let go of his hatred for Rhaegar Targaryen. Even after fifteen years, the wounds of the past remained raw. That bitterness, combined with recent events, made everything more dangerous.
There was also the matter of the dwarf.
Though the dwarf himself had wished to keep things quiet, ravens had already flown. The King might not care much for Tyrion Lannister, but the incident had undoubtedly bruised his pride. And the Queen… the Queen never forgot a slight.
Jon studied Eddard's expression. His lord rarely spoke lightly, and the lines on his face told Jon that this conflict was far deeper than a simple disagreement.
"Then perhaps," Jon suggested after a moment, "we could leave by sea."
"But Littlefinger controls the harbor and the customs," Eddard said. "I fear rumors would spread before we could escape."
Even so, his eyes brightened slightly.
Northerners were not fond of the sea, and Eddard himself had traveled it rarely. Yet desperate times demanded desperate measures.
They could sail, perhaps stopping briefly at Dragonstone. Stannis Baratheon had isolated himself there, refusing all contact with King's Landing.
Eddard knew Stannis possessed crucial knowledge—but the man's silence was as stubborn as iron.
"Besides Littlefinger," Eddard asked quietly, "did the dwarf tell you anything else?"
Jon shook his head. "Only that Littlefinger cannot be trusted. He said Baelish never tells the truth."
Eddard exhaled slowly. "That alone is warning enough."
He straightened. "We will leave as soon as possible. I will take you and a few guards first. The others can follow once preparations are complete."
"Only the steward and Captain Jory will be informed later. The Red Keep is full of watchful eyes—this plan must not be leaked under any circumstances."
As he spoke, Eddard felt a sharp longing in his chest.
Winterfell called to him.
He missed the snow, the quiet of the Wolfswood, the solemn strength of the ancient walls. His sons were there. His lady waited for him.
"I understand, my lord," Jon replied.
Then he hesitated. "There is one more thing… concerning Littlefinger. I believe you should know."
"What is it?" Eddard asked.
Jon lowered his voice. "On the day of the tourney, Littlefinger approached Lady Sansa. He even touched her hair and spoke to her."
Eddard's eyes widened sharply. "What?"
"I couldn't hear what he said. I was too far away."
Eddard's jaw tightened.
Littlefinger had gone too far.
"That is enough," Eddard said coldly. "I will speak to Sansa myself."
He left Jon in the study and went to see his daughter.
When Eddard returned, his face was dark with fury.
"That girl didn't tell me a word," he growled.
Jon looked at him steadily. "Do you remember what Arya once said, my lord?"
Eddard nodded slowly. He remembered it all too clearly.
"Arya heard everything in the secret passage."
Jon's voice remained calm, but his words carried weight. "Do you believe what she heard was true?"
"Yes," Jon said firmly before Eddard could answer. "Arya would never lie. Sometimes, children see more clearly than adults."
His hands clenched. "The two men said they would kill you. They said you had found the bastard and obtained the book."
"If the first Hand could die, then so could the second."
"One was fat, with a yellow forked beard and rings on his fingers. He said they needed more time. The other wore armor and claimed he could not use magic."
"They said the wolf and the lion would soon tear each other apart."
Jon paused, then added, "The armored man also said the prince had no children—but that the khal had to be dealt with swiftly."
Silence fell.
Eddard felt a chill creep up his spine.
"There are forces in King's Landing beyond the wolf and the lion," Jon continued. "For them to know the secret tunnels… they must be deeply embedded."
"If those two truly exist," Eddard said slowly, "then they are masters of the hidden ways."
Only a few in King's Landing possessed such knowledge—Varys, without question, and Littlefinger as well.
But Eddard shook his head.
"Not now. These shadows can wait."
Jon nodded. "The bastard is the key. A bastard should have no claim—yet Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis both acted as though bound by something greater."
"There must be a secret."
"You're right," Eddard admitted. "But I lack one final proof."
"There is a brothel I must still visit."
Jon frowned. "My lord—"
"What should we do?" Eddard asked.
Jon hesitated only briefly.
"We have no allies here. House Lannister and House Stark are nearing open conflict."
"Have you noticed?" Jon said quietly. "In King's Landing, only Littlefinger is overly enthusiastic toward you."
"He visits often. But he does not respect you. Not truly. Not because of Lady Catelyn."
Eddard closed his eyes.
"Yes. Optimism was my greatest mistake."
"I trusted too easily," he said bitterly. "I never imagined my friends would become this."
Jon met his gaze. "Then we should act first."
"Confuse the board completely. And then we withdraw to Winterfell."
Eddard studied him. "How?"
Jon's voice lowered. "Begin with Littlefinger."
"You need not act yourself. I will."
"If a son defends the honor of his family, that is a knightly thing."
Eddard was silent for a long moment.
"It is too bold," he said at last.
Jon smiled faintly. "What does a bastard's life matter, if it protects House Stark?"
Eddard closed his eyes.
Then he shook his head.
"No."
"We leave tomorrow."
"A fast ship. An experienced crew. We are done with King's Landing."
He looked at the dagger—the one that had crippled Bran.
Too many secrets. Too many lies.
He was tired.
"As you command, my lord," Jon said.
Yet doubt lingered in his heart.
Just then, footsteps echoed outside.
"My lord," Tomard announced, "Lord Baelish seeks an audience. He seems… anxious."
Far away, beneath the shadow of the Mountains of the Moon, Catelyn Stark rode in silence.
She felt like crying.
But she would not.
Her tears were for Bran, for her missing daughters, and for the five men who had died on the road to the Eyrie.
Blood still danced before her eyes.
Yet she forced herself to stand tall.
She was the Lady of Winterfell.
Because the Imp had escaped, retaliation from Casterly Rock would come swiftly. She had no choice but to unite with her sister, Lysa.
"These mountain clans are troublesome," Ser Donnel of the Vale said. "They know the terrain well. They fight like ghosts—strike and vanish."
"They are like the wind," Catelyn agreed quietly.
The High Mountain Clans were poor, badly armed, yet relentless. They raided without mercy.
At last, they reached the Bloody Gate.
The fortress rose like a wall of stone and history.
Catelyn stared in awe.
No army had ever passed without permission.
A knight rode forth to greet them.
Blue and red. A black fish.
Riverrun.
Her heart stirred.
"Family. Duty. Honor."
Had she lived up to those words?
"Who seeks passage?" the knight called.
"Ser Donnel Waynwood and Lady Catelyn Stark," came the reply.
The visor lifted.
"Little Cat," the knight said warmly.
"Uncle Brynden," Catelyn whispered.
Time seemed to fall away.
"In the name of the Lord of the Eyrie," Brynden proclaimed, "I grant you passage."
Catelyn heard the words clearly.
The true Warden of the East.
Lysa still remembered.
And that meant opportunity.
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