Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Hand of the King had come to a decision. He had decided that he hated King's Landing, he hated the Red Keep and most of all he hated being Hand of the King. If it were not for his duty to Robert he would be riding North, back to Winterfell and Cat and the rest of his family, not sitting at his desk in the Tower of the Hand surrounded by papers and ink trying to make sense of reports, accounts and letters. Ned was no fool but with every passing day it seemed a more and more hopeless task to impose some sort of order on the affairs of state. At the back of his head a suspicious voice was starting to suggest that perhaps someone, probably someone with golden hair, did not actually want him to make sense of the affairs of King's Landing; never mind the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

A double knock on the door disturbed Ned's thoughts. "Enter" he called, already knowing from the knock who was at the door. Jory Cassel walked into the room and bowed to his lord.

"You've brought him?" Ned asked

"Yes my lord," Jory replied.

Ned frowned, there was just a hint of hesitation in Jory's voice. He had heard it the night before when Jory had brought him news of the foreign swordsman he had found to teach Arya. Jory was a good man, and Ned trusted his judgement, but like many other northerners he thought in straight lines; a man was trustworthy or not, honourable or not. That Jory was unsure about this foreigner, but still recommending him as a swordmaster to teach Arya concerned Ned.

"Well send him in then."

Jory nodded and stepped outside, Ned could hear him talking to someone. Then the door opened and a stranger walked in.

The stranger was tall and lean, but strangely Ned's first impression was that the foreigner looked like Varys. Like the Masters of Whispers the stranger was wearing long slowing robes, an unusual sight in any of the Seven Kingdoms apart from Dorne. It was only on a second look that Ned realised his mistake. Varys' robes were enveloping flowing garments of silks that hid his figure and had an undoubtedly womanly feel. This stranger's robes were close cut, clinging to his arms and chest and with slits cut so his legs could move freely, revealing dark trousers and battered leather boots. They weren't made of silk either but some rough looking material Ned didn't recognise. As the stranger stalked forwards and stood in front of his desk Ned realised that despite the slight similarity of clothing this man was nothing like Varys, the eunuch didn't walk like that, didn't walk like a warrior. Yet strangely this warrior carried no sword or other weapon, just a black cane with a silver top carved into the shape of a serpent. He clearly did not need the cane to walk so Ned found himself at something of a loss as to why a young man would carry a walking stick.

The stranger was young, surprisingly young, Ned had been expecting a grizzled veteran or at least a man of obvious experience, in fact Ned would have thought him closer to Jon's age than his own. The voice of a father at the back of Ned's mind wondered if having such a young and somewhat handsome man as Arya's teacher was such a good idea. That said there was something about the man though, a look in his eye, a hardness in the cold lines of his face. Ned had seen that look during the Rebellion, seen it on Robert's face and his own, it was the face of a boy forced to grow up too soon.

His thought were cut off as the foreigner suddenly spoke, "Lord Stark it is an honour to meet you, I am Draco Malfoy." A slight bow followed, enough to show respect but certainly not enough to show true deference.

Ned pulled himself out of his thoughts, "I am told you are an exceptional swordsman ser, and an able teacher."

The foreigner, Draco, smiled, "I am exceptional in many ways my lord."

Ned felt the stirrings of unease, there was something about that smile that unsettled him, "So you say, and so Jory says, yet you carry no blade, only a stick."

Draco smiled again ever so slightly "I thought it unlikely that a stranger would be allowed armed into the Red keep, let alone the Tower of the Hand, so I came unarmed."

Ned raise an eyebrow, this Draco was of course correct but to state it so boldly was unusual. He was struggling to find the measure of this man. Draco had the natural self-assured arrogance of the highborn, but was seeking paid work. His clothes were outlandish and foreign but at the same time clearly those of a fighter. That he was completely unconcerned about walking unarmed through the Streets of King's Landing in the early hours showed either a shocking naivety or complete confidence in his own skill.

"How did you come to be in Westeros? And from where do you hail?" Ned thought at least this would help him get some measure of the man.

"I come from the lands beyond Asshai my lord. I came to be in Westeros after my family picked the losing side in a war and I was exiled," a sardonic smirk "Fortunately."

Ned was stunned, Asshai by the Shadow was a land of near myth that few even boasted to have seen. For a man to claim to have come from beyond Asshai was unheard of.

"And in this homeland of yours what was the name of your house?"

Draco looked sharply at Ned "My house?"

Ned felt a sudden surge of satisfaction at having surprised this stranger. "You are clearly not one of the small folk so you must have held allegiance to a Great House."

Draco smiled, the smile of a man acknowledging a worthy opponent, "Well observed my lord. It would be more accurate to say that my family were a Great House, as you Westerosi call them," a pause, "And we followed a more powerful lord to death, disgrace and ruin."

Now the picture made sense to Ned. The son of a highborn family on the losing side in a war, exiled or forced to flee half away across the world. Impoverished and alone men like that found themselves with no skills but those of a lord, but with no estates to manage or smallfolk to rule they turned to the sword as the only way to survive. Such men were also very dangerous and often followed by danger.

"Lord Malfoy," Ned spoke evenly "Can you swear to me that no feuds or bloodshed will come from your homeland to Westeros?"

Draco looked Ned in the eye, "Few are left alive who care to remember me there Lord Stark, and no-one would care enough to come searching for me as either friend or foe."

Ned looked at this Draco with new eyes. The pride, the easy stance of a warrior, that air of nobility were still there, but now he could see other signs. A sense of melancholy and in the hardness on his face a hint of pain.

Ned held Draco's stare, searchingly "Lord Malfoy, I wish to obtain your services to teach my youngest daughter the Lady Arya how to wield a sword."

A moment passed, Draco stepped back and bowed deeply, "My Lord it would be my honour".