The scratching of the quill over the parchment was the only sound that dared break the silence of my chamber, while the lone candle flame danced like a tormented soul, casting long, twisting shadows against the cold stone walls. I was not writing a letter; I was charting a map for a road paved with blood and necessity. In the Game of Thrones, good intentions are the shortest path to the executioner's block, and I had no intent to be a mere footnote in the tragic annals of House Stark.
I set the quill aside and stared into the dark void. In the original tale, Ned Stark believed that the truth was the sword that cut through every lie, only to discover too late that it was the stone tied around his neck to drown him.
I looked at the name Robert Baratheon which I had scratched upon the page. If the King learned the truth of Cersei's betrayal—that his golden children were the spawn of incest between the Lion and his sister—he would not settle for a divorce. A "Raging" Robert would become a hammer; he would burn Casterly Rock to the ground, plunging the realm into a devastating civil war that would bleed the Seven Kingdoms dry before the True Winter could even arrive. Ned would be at the vanguard, and Robb would lead the banners; their deaths would be as certain as the setting of the sun.
No. The truth is a poison that must not be swallowed now. The "Secret of Lineage" must remain a dagger in my pocket, to be drawn for blackmail or leverage, not for total detonation. I must keep Ned from that damned book of lineages, or at least make him hesitate before he whispers a word to the King.
I drew a charcoal circle, black as soot, around the name Joffrey. This was no child; he was a monster fed on pain and arrogance. He was the fuse that would ignite the world once Robert drew his last breath. I remembered how he had ordered Ned's head taken, flouting every pact and promise. The only solution was for this monster to vanish from the board before the King succumbed to his wounds. Tommen was a soft child, like unformed clay, and his ascension would leave Cersei weaker and more brittle. Poison? Perhaps. A hunting accident? Possible. Killing a Crown Prince is a dance on a razor's edge, but it is a dance I must learn, and I will need an ally with the venom and the spine for it... perhaps Pycelle, or someone far more dangerous.
My eyes drifted to the name that stirred more revulsion in me than any other: Petyr Baelish.
Ned trusted him because Catelyn trusted him, and that was the gap in his armor. I could not tell Ned "I know the future"; I would sound a madman. Instead, I must sow seeds of systematic doubt. I will remind him, time and again, of the story of Baelish and Brandon Stark. I will whisper it until the sound takes root in his mind: "The man who lost his love and his pride to the Starks will never be an ally to them. His smile is but the sheath for his blade."
I must convince Ned to raise a private guard in King's Landing. Sellswords who owe no fealty to Baelish's gold nor the gold cloaks of the City Watch. A small force, fierce and loyal only to us.
I sighed and looked out into the gloom, thinking of what lay across the Narrow Sea. Daenerys Targaryen.
She was the only salvation against the Army of the Dead, and her dragons the only fire that could melt the encroaching ice. But my reach was far too short. I was but a master-at-arms' son, without gold, ships, or birds to whisper across the salt. To reach her now was a fever dream, and any attempt to contact her might reveal my hand too soon. I would settle for testing the pulse of Varys once I reached the capital. The Spider wanted the stability of the realm, and if I could hint that I knew of the "Little Dragon" in the East, we might find common ground. But until then, Daenerys remained a card played only in the mind.
Then there was Tyrion Lannister. The Imp who possessed a mind that outweighed the realm.
Alas, our paths would fork tomorrow. He would go North to the Wall with Jon and Benjen to see the end of the world with his own eyes, while I would be dragged South into the mire of politics with Ned. I would not see him for months, perhaps years. But when he returned from the Wall... then he would have seen the truth, and his mind would be fertile ground for an alliance. I must ensure he stays alive until that day comes.
I looked at my hands in the flickering candlelight. They were hands accustomed to the hilt of a sword, but now they held the fates of millions. Hands that could still feel the phantom warmth of Tom's sticky blood.
I closed my eyes for a heartbeat. Tom. That poor boy had been my "entry fee" for this filthy game. His death was the first lesson: innocence does not protect you, and good intent does not halt a fall. I had paid for Bran's life with Tom's soul, and now I was prepared to pay for Ned's life with Joffrey's. Let Tom rest in peace now; his part was done, and mine as a ghost had begun.
I touched the corner of the parchment to the candle flame. I watched as the fire licked the edges of the page, turning plans and names into black ash that scattered into the air. Truth is a costly thing, lies are a necessity, and killing is sometimes a mercy.
"Forgive me, Ned," I whispered to the emptiness as the smoke filled my lungs. "I shall have to do much dirty work behind your back, just to keep your head upon your shoulders."
Tomorrow, the procession departs. Tomorrow, the true struggle begins. In Winterfell, I left my heart; in King's Landing... I will leave my mark, or my grave.