Tomas sat alone at a table in the library with books old and large scattered about. He flipped through the thick pages, green eyes scanning up and down the contents that laid within them before turning the page with a look of frustration on his face. He had sat there for hours, the only company being the shelves all around him and the knowledge they contained. King's Landing was buzzing with news of the tournament in the Hand's honor, the Hand himself appearing irritated at the mere mention of it name, and his father the king was ready to walk out onto the field himself with his warhammer and start cracking skulls. And where was he? Inside an old library that only saw use by Grand Maester Pycelle and Tyrion Lannister.

The silence of the library was so heavy you could drop a piece of silver and it would resonate with the entire room. Tomas liked it. After being surrounded by so much noise within the Keep and King's Landing, the silence was a welcome change from what he normally heard. It also made it easy to tell when someone was closing in. That made no difference when all of a sudden the shadow of a bald man could be seen on the table cast from the nearby candle light. At first the prince had thought it was Syrio Forel coming to press him more on what he was protecting Arya Stark from. But when he looked up he only saw the Master of Whispers, Lord Varys.

Lord Varys was a plump, bald man who only ever wore the finest silks he could put together with the most outlandish of colors one could mix. The colors were always enough to make the prince's eyes burned. Tomas was so startled he didn't even realized he had clenched his hand to his chest until Lord Varys granted him an apologetic look on his powdered face. "Forgive me, my prince," the man said, "I did not mean to startle you. I was not expecting anyone to be here."

"It's quite all right," Tomas replied. "Have a seat if it pleases you."

"Thank you, my prince."

Lord Varys pulled out the chair opposite of Tomas and sat down. The prince could see him looking at the books on the table in silent intrigue, catching the cover of one with the slight lift of his finger. "May I ask the sudden intrigue in law, my prince?"

"I'm looking for laws on bastards."

"Bastards? I do hope the cruel songs they sing about the king has not left you with sleepless nights."

"Gods no."

Tomas stopped on a page near the back of the book in his hand and brought his finger on the part that stuck out to him and began to read aloud. "A baseborn son may inherit his father's house if there are no other trueborn sons, or if he is legitimized by royal decree of the king."

"Are you looking to legitimize baseborn children, my prince?"

"Jon Snow," Tomas answered simply.

"The lord Hand's bastard?" questioned Lord Varys. "It was my understanding he traveled north to take the black."

"How did you–?" Tomas stopped himself. "For a moment I forgot to whom I was speaking." Tomas closed the book and leaned back in his chair. "Arya won't speak to me. I thought perhaps if I wrote a royal decree to legitimize her half brother when I become king I may win back her favor."

Varys offered him a look of sympathy, whether or not it was sincere only the gods knew. "A noble gesture, my prince, but by the time you would come into your throne, Jon Snow would have already taken his vows. While he'd no doubt be honored by your decree, it would only serve to further remind him that which he will never have."

Tomas sighed. "I had thought as much."

"While we're on the subject of the north, I do have some good news to report."

"Do you?"

"Bran Stark has awakened from his sleep."

Tomas looked up from his book and a smile graced his lips. It was the first real smile to move his lips since he returned to King's Landing. "He's going to be all right?"

"As much as a cripple boy can be, my prince. And what of you? I heard you received a rather nasty wound yourself on the Kingsroad."

The prince's eyes glanced down to his left arm which he kept to his side and tried not to bend. Ever since being bitten Tomas had relied on his right hand to do everything which his primary hand once performed without much thought. Now the pain had to remind him that his left hand was not up to the task anymore. "I'll live."

"You are your father's son," complimented Varys.

Tomas snorted. That much he knew to be false flattery. He was as much his father's son as Arya was her mother's daughter and all the black hair dye in the world wouldn't change that. A third pair of feet could be heard approaching the table and out from the darkness came Grand Maester Pycelle. Pycelle was an old man with a great white beard that went down to his chest. Hair sparsely remained atop his bald, spotted head. Two dozen heavy chains that stretched from neck to breast signifying his servitude to the realm could be found around his beard. Tomas remembered being a small boy at his study with Pycelle by his side teaching what a young prince needed to know to one day rule the Seven Kingdoms. The old man smiled to the prince and Tomas nodded his head in response as Lord Varys also greeted the maester.

"I have not seen one so young sit here in some time," mused Maester Pycelle. "I would have thought you'd be out in the courtyard watching the Kingsguard train as you always do."

"I had some curiosities to quench," answered Tomas.

The grand maester looked over the books of law scattered about the table and gave the prince an approving smile. "Very good, my prince. Yes, a king should be familiar with the laws of his land. Very good."

"I'll clean up," said Tomas.

"No need," replied Pycelle. "I will see to it. You run along now."

"Thank you, Grand Maester." Tomas turned to Varys. "My lord."

"My prince," Lord Varys replied with a bow of the head.

Tomas excused himself from the table and returned to the hallways of the Keep. On his way to the courtyard Tomas happened across a short, slender man whom gray in his eyes matched the threads of gray found in his dark hair and the small pointed beard that covered his chin. It could be no other than Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin. Otherwise known as Littlefinger. If Tomas didn't know any better he would swear the small council was watching him.

"My prince," greeted Littlefinger. "It pleases me to see you well enough to traverse the Keep. The other small councilors and I have been worried."

"I thank you for your concern," replied Tomas. "I hear there's a tournament on the horizon?"

"Yes, your father has commanded it in honor of Lord Stark appointment as Hand. Knights from all over the Seven Kingdoms are coming in to compete." Lord Baelish answered, now walking by the prince's side.

"Who all is competing?"

"Your uncles Ser Jaime and Lord Renly, of course. Ser Barristan, Ser Gregor, the Hound, Ser Hugh of the Vale, and the champion of the last tournament, Ser Loras Tyrell."

Tomas mulled over the names. No doubt Jaime would wish to repay Ser Loras for the beating he took on his fourteenth nameday. The Hound may very well only be competing for the chance to unhorse his brother, the Mountain. A man his personal bodyguard had no lasting love for. Something the crown prince could relate to. Ser Hugh of the Vale was the former Hand's squire, knighted not long after Lord Jon's death. Tomas was happy for him, even though his knighting could have came under better circumstances.

"Will any of the Stark men be competing?" asked Tomas.

"I believe Ser Cassel will be riding," replied Littlefinger.

"That's some lineup. Any favorites so far?"

"I wouldn't bet against Ser Gregor, my prince. Or any member of your family."

"My father would," quipped the prince. Lord Baelish allowed himself a laugh only because the prince had done so.

"But will lightning strike twice?" said Littlefinger.

"Only the gods know. Will Lady Arya be at attendance?"

"I expect the lord Hand's entire family will be there. The tournament is in his honor, after all." Littlefinger examined the prince as they came to a stop at the entrance to the courtyard. "How are things between you and your betrothed, if you don't mind my asking?"

Tomas frowned. "Not well."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Not unless you know how to court a Stark girl."

Lord Baelish smiled. "The Starks are as cool and unyielding as the harsh winters of the north, but there are still things they value: honor, loyalty, family, truth. Prove you hold these things close to your heart and you would have won the trust of the wolf."

"Truth," Tomas repeatedly quietly.

Tomas pondered on that word most of all. Should he tell Ned the truth? That he lied before the king? That Cersei threatened his daughter's life and may very well be behind Bran's fall to keep him in Winterfell? Would that be the honorable thing to do, or was it less honorable if the only reason he did it was to win Arya's heart? The sound of steel on steel from the yard woke Tomas's up from his thoughts, shortly followed by Littlefinger, "If you'd excuse me, my prince, I have some matters to intend to." Littlefinger bowed and then took off, leaving the prince alone with his thoughts and the meeting of blades in the yard.

It seemed as if time stood still while the prince recollected his thoughts. Arya's words replaying in his mind like that of a haunting melody. You're a liar and a coward. A liar he could live with. A man wouldn't last a day behind these walls without being a liar, but a coward? That only served to salt the wound already on his pride. Would a coward be able to hold his ground against a scorned Cersei Lannister when they were alone? Would a coward be able to speak with venom against the Kingslayer? Would a coward free an animal who was sentenced to death by order of the king? Tomas shook his head, reassuring himself that a coward would not.

The prince's eyes caught the Tower of the Hand from afar and in that moment he knew what he had to do. If he wanted peace of mind and to mend things with his betrothed there was only one thing to do: tell Eddard Stark the truth.