Disclaimer: Odds are, if you read something in this, its George RR Martin's. I own almost nothing here.

EDDARD

"Give me an hour and I could put a hundred swords in your hand," Renly Baratheon stated blatantly.

The first thought that came to Eddard Stark's mind was of how he could barely walk, let alone hold a hundred swords. Now is not the time for humor; the king lies dead and I make jests while bold decisions are to be made. "And what am I to do with a hundred swords, Lord Renly?" Ned shrugged Tomard and Cayn off of him, indicating he did not need support for the time being. The two guards slowly let go as the youngest Baratheon answered.

"Strike! Tonight, while the castle rests!" Renly looked almost wide-eyed under the moonlight, seeming surprised that Ned would even ask such a question. "If Robert made you regent, you need to make the first move before Cersei realizes she can." He looked back toward the keep, as if looking to see if they were being watched. Ned had never seen Renly so jumped before. He had always been calm, collected, but humorous. There was no humor to his tone, now. No collectiveness to his words. And his demeanor was definitely the opposite of calm.

Ned shook his head lightly, trying to process what he was being asked to do. It was treason; outright, un-sugar-coated treason. There was no secrecy involved with this. "What 'move' would you have me make, my lord? Would you fancy me a usurper?" His tone was cold; he did not try to amend it.

Renly did not seem to notice. "Better a usurper than a corpse. But no, that's not what I'm asking. Nor am I asking, but nor am I demanding. I'm… offering."

"Offering what, my lord? To plague Robert's last moments with blood and chaos? Is that what you 'offer', Renly? Right here, in plain sight of the Red Keep, clear for all to see?"

For a moment, Renly considered his words, and for that moment Ned thought he was going to leave. But the stag quickly recovered and understood what the wolf meant. Taking a step closer, seeming to have his usual wit back, unprovoked by both Tom and Cayn's own steps forward, the young Baratheon lowered his voice to a whisper. "Meet me in the godswood."

Ned's own voice was hushed as he replied, "My chambers. Alone."

They both turned promptly, and Tom and Cayn once again took up their efforts of assistance, and escorted Eddard to the Tower of the Hand.

The steps winded up, and as he expected, it took longer than usual to make his way up them. Maybe it just felt like that. That was to be expected as well; he had a castle-full of thoughts running through his mind. If Cersei discovers this, we're all dead men. Myself, Renly, all his supposed men, anyone she believes to be involved. And the girls…

Ned had forgotten about the girls. Arya and Sansa had both been a bit preoccupied in the past month, the former constantly with the Braavosi and the latter being courted by the prince. Their father had little time to spend on them. And he hated himself for it. This may be the last time I may be able to if this is botched…

Suddenly, a realization dawned on him that had not deemed to shed light on him until just then. As Cayn opened the door to his chambers and Tom helped him inside, Ned moved to a comfortable, red, ironwood chair that was seated right beside the already lit fire. Sighing, Eddard leaned back, his eyes glossy with memory and intense thought. "Tom."

The fat guardsman bowed his head silently, his voice hushed. "M'lord."

"I want you and twenty handpicked men to accompany Sansa and Arya back to Winterfell. There is a ship waiting in the harbor, that will be heading north by the morn. Ensure they're kept safe."

From the corner of his eye, Ned saw Tom bow his head once again. "Aye, m'lord hand. I'll pick them tonight. You could look over them, before our departure, if you'd like."

Eddard nodded slowly, staring into the fire. "Cayn," he said. After awaiting another head-bow, Ned continued. "Go to Lord Baelish's apartments and inform him the hand would like to discuss the king's will; privately."

Waiting for the two guardsmen to leave, Lord Eddard sighed, and rose painfully, using his cane to cross the room to the hand's desk- his desk- and slowly sat back down again. Before him was a book; a rather large book, at that. A ponderous tome, Grand Maester Pycelle had declared it, and even just looking at it you could tell the statement was true. The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. Never had Ned poured so much effort into analyzing a single book as he had with this one. Hopefully it was not in vain.

Opening up the dusty thing, Ned once again opened to the pages detailing the lineage of House Baratheon. Running his fingers down the long, yellowed pages, Ned found them settling on the newly-written lineage of his dying friend Robert. Golden haired, all three, he thought to himself. Cersei herself told me they are no true heirs to the throne. She all but stated it, right to my face…

Eddard slowly reached over to his quill and ink pot, contemplating on writing to Stannis Baratheon on Dragonstone. He would be the one true heir to the Iron Throne if what he thought was true, and now he all but knew it. All he needed to do was write this one letter, give it to Tom, and have the Wind Witch stop at Dragonstone, and it would be done. Stannis would sail for King's Landing and take the throne. As was his right.

Just as he was pressing the ink-covered quill to the parchment, Cayn and Desmond both entered with Littlefinger in tow. Petyr was a short man, slender in form, but Ned knew the dangers he posed. His gray-green eyes pierced Eddard's as he entered, playing with the beard that stood solely on his chin, pointing out like the tip of a sword. The man wore a blue velvet tunic with puffed sleeves, his silvery cape patterned with mockingbirds. As if the gods willed it, the wind blew a gust through the window, causing the thing to flap in all directions. Ned thanked the two guardsmen before dismissing them.

Baelish bore a smug smile as he moved to take a seat opposite Eddard. "Congratulations, Lord Protector, on your new position."

Ned frowned in confusion, looking over to the letter that Robert himself had sealed – his final will and testament… unopened. "And how did you come across the news of my appointment, my lord?"

"Varys likes to play at hints. And you just confirmed my suspicion." Littlefinger's smile widened, noticing Eddard's hand holding the quill over the parchment. "Informing your wife? Perhaps inviting her to the capital once again?"

Ned scowled at that, trying to control his annoyance. "I never invited her in the first place, Lord Baelish. She came of her own accord."

"Of course," Littlefinger replied. "But I wager you did not fetch me from my chambers at the hour of the wolf to speak of Lady Catelyn or her adventures."

Eddard placed the quill back in the ink pot for the moment, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands on the wooden desk. "The king is near death. But no doubt you have already heard."

"Indeed," Littlefinger said.

Before Ned could continue, a sharp rasp came at the door, and he was ready to fight at a moment's notice. He didn't even notice his sword hand went to his hip. "Yes?"

Cayn's voice answered promptly. "Lord Renly, m'lord."

A sigh of relief escaped Ned's mouth, much to Littlefinger's amusement. "Send him in."

The young Baratheon looked just as restless and anxious as before, though he did seemed to be a bit calmer. Renly took one look at Littlefinger, who waved amusedly at him, and inhaled exasperatedly. "You said alone, Ned."

"Aye," Eddard replied, "I said alone. Only because alone suited my purposes. If the queen's informants heard anything you had said, they needed to think we were… conspiring… alone." Ned hated saying that.

Littlefinger seemed to enjoy what Ned said. "You're learning, Lord Stark."

"I'd much rather stay unlearned in these intrigues. But for now I must play your game, until Lord Stannis arrives."

"Stannis?" Renly sounded surprised. "What does Stannis have to do with any of this?"

Ned sighed; this was the best time to tell them. They needed to know if this scheme was going to work. "Jon Arryn was murdered." He let those words sink in, though they didn't seem to have any effect on the two men across him. "I know the secret he died with, and was poisoned to protect. When the king passes, he will leave behind no trueborn heirs. Joffrey, Tommen, even Myrcella, they are all bastards… born from the incestuous relations, between the queen and her brother, Jaime Lannister."

Littlefinger's smile died, but his tone gave no indication as to any surprise. "Shocking, Lord Eddard." Petyr frowned, and grabbed the quill out of the inkpot that Ned had set aside. Renly was frowning as well, as if he had not even considered the idea of Robert's children being baseborn. Littlefinger continued on. "So that means, that the throne…"

"The throne passes to Lord Stannis," Ned finished for him. "By right of birth and blood, the Iron Throne will bear him."

"Indeed," Littlefinger said. "Unless…"

"There is no unless, Lord Baelish. Stannis Baratheon is the one true heir. It can be no other way."

Renly Baratheon finally spoke up, raising a hand as if to stop them from talking for a second. His face was heavily concentrated, almost scowling. "Lord Baelish is right to say unless, Lord Eddard. There is more than one way to handle this. We need not be so hasty."

"Hasty?" Ned was growing impatient with these two. Schemers, both of them. "You were rather hasty on the bridge leading from the tower where your brother lays dying, my lord."

Renly paid that no mind, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "If Stannis were to come here," he was saying pretty much to himself in a hushed voice, "he'd put all the Lannisters to death. Should he know the truth, that is."

"He does," Eddard confirmed. "From what I've gathered, he and Jon had been working with each other. It would explain his sudden plight to Dragonstone."

"If you believe that," Littlefinger chimed in, "Lord Stark, you are a bigger fool than I first believed." Baelish continued to play with the quill, leaning back in his chair. "Stannis Baratheon may be an honorable man, but he is a jealous one as well. As soon as His Grace named you Hand, Lord Stannis packed up his house and family and fled to Dragonstone, tail between his legs, pouting face on. Stannis broods, Lord Stark, and broods often. He will not forgive such a slight."

Ned had not considered that. He remembered hearing rumors of Stannis' leaving upon his appointment, but he didn't think it was on grounds of jealousy. His head hurt.

Renly moved closer to the table, practically leaning over it; the same look he had before still adorned his face. "Littlefinger speaks the truth, Ned. Everyone knows it; Stannis holds a grudge better than anyone. But that is not what I worry for." Renly made for the window overlooking the courtyard, and took a comfortable seat on the ledge, looking out over the darkness of the yard below. "If we hand the realm over to Stannis, you will not be protecting anything, Lord Protector." Renly said the title with mirth. "Tell me, which is the better situation, Lord Stark: taking the kingdom from Cersei Lannister, a woman you could control given the right circumstances, and ruling through her and her son – or after seizing the kingdom from her, hand the reins over to a man that inspires no love, loyalty, or kinship?"

Littlefinger nodded nonchalantly. "A fine way of putting things, indeed."

"A fine way to so negligently discuss treason in front of the Lord Protector." Ned was now entirely angry; he didn't even realize he had raised his voice until he was done. He sighed, realizing that this whole meeting was treason in itself. "You southrons… do none of you have a shred of honor?"

"A shred," Littlefinger retorted, "but surely nothing more than that. Hear me out. Stannis is no friend of yours, or of I. He can barely stand his brothers, for the gods' sake." Renly chuckled darkly. Littlefinger continued. "The man is practically made of iron; unyielding, scarcely malleable. It will be no easy task to rein him in from causing open war in the realm. A war that will involve more than just the riverlands, if that's what you're going to retort with. Think of it: Stannis Baratheon sails into Blackwater Bay, rides up to the Red Keep, and takes his crown, all the while measuring Cersei and her children's heads for a spike on the walls of Maegor's Holdfast. Tywin Lannister is not a man to take threats lightly. He will march here as soon as word reaches him that Stannis has killed his darling daughter, the Light of the West, and her oh-so-beautiful children. He's been raiding the riverlands all because your wife took the Imp for a month or so; imagine what kind of wroth he will bring down upon Stannis and us should we be the ones to hand him the throne. And let us not forget the Tyrells and the rest of the Reach; as soon as Stannis is crowned he will want to avenge those that starved within his walls at the siege of Storm's End, and the great houses of the reach will not bow so easily to a man that wants their heads. War and fire will engulf the realm… and all for honor." Littlefinger stopped playing with the quill and promptly snapped it in half, as if it was some sort of symbol, before he continued.

"Now look at the positive side. Joffrey is a boy of twelve, easily influenced if you put enough sweet words in his ear. The king gave you the regency; you are Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm. You have the power to rein in Joffrey and bring the Lannisters to heel. All you need do is make peace with them. Release the Imp. Wed Sansa and Joffrey, binding whatever offspring they produce to your family. Treat with Lord Tywin; end the war in the riverlands. It could all be accomplished… if you meet the circumstances."

Ned's mouth twisted; he felt as if he was on puppets strings… and yet he was the puppet master in this case. He needed only to say the word, and whichever choice he went with would be carried out. He knew what sort of man Joffrey could potentially grow up to be if he wasn't reined in properly. And Ned was not a man to put children to death, like Stannis apparently was. If he were to help the young 'prince', teach him the right way to rule… he would have no need to deal with the scandal that plagues their origins. He could allow it to slide… and the Lannister woman would be forever in his debt for keeping her and her brother's dire secret. He did not like the idea… but he could finally return home, to Winterfell. He could see Bran, Robb, Rickon. He could embrace Catelyn like he'd wanted to while she was in the capital so many months ago. He could visit Jon at the Wall, see what sort of man he had become while becoming a sworn brother… and tell him about his mother.

Let the motley-clad southrons play their game of thrones. Let the Lannister woman and her brother continue their sin. The gods could care less over what Cersei and Jaime Lannister do; they worship their seven faced entity. Let someone else deal with Joffrey and Stannis and all the rest who want the damned barbed seat. Let someone else deal with everything. I belong in the north. I am a Stark. "What… circumstances… would need meeting to accomplish this folly?"

Petyr's smile returned as soon as the words left Eddard's mouth. "You are growing fond of the game, I see, Lord Stark."

"The day I grow fond of your southron games is the day I am rotting in the ground, Lord Baelish."

Renly rose from the window sill and began to pace as soon as Ned had asked of the circumstances he spoke of. "I have around thirty men in my own guard; Ser Loras has just as much; and I have plenty of friends here at court. Those hundred swords I promised can be had within the hour. I need only send the word out." Renly shook his head, frowning. "But it's still not enough. Cersei has a dozen knights at her command, as well as a hundred men-at-arms that were left here by Tywin Lannister as an honor guard. We need more."

They sat in silence for a moment – Renly pacing, Petyr musing, himself frowning – before Eddard remembered what he had brought Littlefinger here for in the first place. "The City Watch is two thousand strong."

Littlefinger chuckled lightly, and suddenly became conscious that his old dagger was sitting on the desk. "The gold cloaks," he went on as he reached over to it, "are pledged to protect the city, the castle, and their king. But who do they follow when the king is too young to issue orders himself, and the queen commands them to do one thing but the Lord Protector another?" He twirled the dragonbone-hilted blade in a circle on the desk, and then stopped it as it landed on him, a wry smile piercing his lips. "The man who pays them, of course."

Renly nodded firmly, his eyes practically glowing with anxiousness and whatever else he felt, whether it be sorrow or something of a completely different nature. "I will gather who I can. Give me an hour. I will meet you in the courtyard soon."

"No." Ned knew this was not what they wanted, but he would not have Robert's last moments be filled with the sounds of bloodshed, and screams from frightened children and dying men alike. "We will not strike tonight. Robert's blood still runs warm; I will not plague his final hours with death and… damnable treason." He shook his head angrily.

Baelish rose from his seat swiftly, his demeanor unchanging. "Fair enough, Lord Stark. I will have enough time to speak with Janos Slynt about his share of the gold. Stingy man, Slynt; even stingier than I." A dark chuckle escaped him as he bowed and turned to leave the room.

"Lord Baelish," Ned lightly called out, rising painfully from his desk. Renly moved to help but he waved his co-conspirator off, propping himself up with his hand on the tabletop. Littlefinger turned to regard him, that same mocking smile on his lips, though he seemed more happy than mocking. Ned continued. "When Catelyn told me you would never betray my trust, I didn't believe her. I was wrong to mistrust you, as I said once before in my solar a few months ago. I apologize."

Littlefinger chuckled once again, and shook his head. "And I will answer with the same thing as before, Lord Stark; mistrusting me was the wisest thing you've done since you entered the capital." He left without another word, his silver cloak dancing with the night's wind, the mockingbirds dancing with it.