Chapter 7: Through the Night

Goldflower

'Sunhair, I trust that my friend has delivered this letter and the accompanying documents to you safely. Please be kind to her; she isn't meant for the southern climate.

I've just met your lovely father, and I must say, you were not exaggerating when you described him to me. But I haven't gone to such efforts of secrecy just to complain of overweight men. I must apologise first and foremost. When you told me about the conditions in the city, I believed you, but I didn't really understand. Now I do. It's filthy yet so easily fixable it creates a nausea of its own.

My research has stalled, but I believe my search near its end. There is only one more task I must undertake before I am sure. A confrontation I need force. Seven bless me that I am not wrong in this. I dare not tell him my theories before I am sure. It would break him, will break him. I can only hope I am there to pick up the pieces.

But if my investigation proves true, Sunhair, I need you to determine who can be trusted. This is a conspiracy of epic proportions we are planning, and if this truth comes to life, all our heads will be upon spikes. If this is to work, I need to know I can count on you and the other snakes to stand for the Court of Summer and Storms. We may need to move faster than we thought. With some luck, I can start planting the seeds for a Court of Winds and Winter to follow.

Be safe, be strong.

Goldflower, of the Court of Spring and Songs.'

The Kingsroad

When Rhaenys' uncles had pulled her aside as the Starks and Tyrells finished their sojourn to Sunspear, she had been understandably apprehensive. She worried she'd accidentally tipped some plan regarding Jon Snow after he'd fled from her in the Water Gardens. However, she needn't have feared because the news they gave her was better than she could have dreamed.

"He's my brother?" She had whispered, voice trembling with the weight of it. A brother? She loved Oberyn's daughters – her cousins, her sisters in everything but blood – with all she had. But to know there was someone else out there with her blood…

"Half-brother," Oberyn retorted bitterly.

"Yes, and when the time comes, we will help him reclaim his crown," Doran said, smiling softly down at her.

"For vengeance… and a better world," Oberyn muttered.

Rhaenys beamed, nodding rapidly.

"What can I do?"

"Go to him. Protect him from the shadows. Guide him if you can. He doesn't know the truth yet, and I doubt he would believe you if you told him. You must wait for the man he thinks his father to admit the truth. Then, you can reveal yourself, but not before."

"When do I start?"

There was no place in Westeros she would rather be than near him – her little brother. If that meant putting up with Arya and Obella or watching him and the Tyrell girl fawn over each other, then so be it. Even if it meant standing in the Red Keep and looking upon the man who'd slaughtered her father.

However, even with her Uncles' warnings not to make direct contact with Jae – because Rhaenys couldn't bring herself to call him Jon, she just couldn't – she doubted she'd have to wait very long. Not after Margaery Tyrell hired a ship bound for Sunspear in secret before the party left Kings Landing and dispatched her northern handmaiden aboard. The Tyrell girl knew, or at very least suspected the truth. She was incredibly clever; Rhaenys would give her that. And Jae was clearly in love with her.

Which was why, when the arrows started flying as the Tyrell caravan rolled through the Riverlands, Rhaenys saved her life.

It was a split-second thing.

In the relative disorder of stopping for the night to make camp along the Kingsroad, a force of armed assailants – bandits, judging by their inadequate clothing and damaged weapons – burst from the bushes, screaming obscenities. Rhaenys, disguised as a Tyrell man-at-arms – hair tucked beneath a cap and breasts tied down – had been helping Margaery and Jae raise the girl's tent. Jae always helped her before erecting his own beside hers, so it was an easy way to keep her eyes on him. As the bandits charged towards them, Jae had been crouched to the ground, pounding one of the tent posts into the soft dirt. On the other hand, Margaery had been standing on tiptoes with arms extended, holding the entrance pole upright. And the bandits had archers.

It was an obvious choice to make, and Rhaenys dove towards Margaery. She knocked the Tyrell aside, both of them crashing to the ground seconds before arrow shafts whistled through the air. Rhaenys head thudded into the earth, metal helmet rattling and disorientating her, but she had enough coherence to push the girl into the falling sheets of the tent. That done, she struggled to her feet, drawing the Tyrell issue sword. She was unsteady, vision still swimming, but there was no fighting left by the time she stood up.

Jae, face alight with utter fury, was tearing the bandits apart. A sword strike beheaded one man, a knee to the groin crumpled another. A dagger flew from his left hand, spearing a third man in the neck as his sword danced through the half-light. He cut down three men before they even had time to react – including the archers – then parried two falling blades. Their armpits, exposed by the action, were sliced open in a heartbeat. They were dead a moment later.

Only once the entire party was dead did Jae stop to breathe. Rhaenys lowered her sword, an awestruck expression sliding onto her face. She was so entranced by him she didn't even notice Margaery pulling herself free of the tent cloth and barrelling past her. The girl threw herself into Jae's arms, and he wrapped his free hand around her, kissing her forehead.

More screams.

Arya's screams.

There were more of them. Weapon still drawn, Jae ushered Margaery towards the centre of the camp. Her face was flushed red, eyes wide in terror, but Jae looked perfectly calm – entirely unaffected by the carnage or his efficiency at carrying it out. That was the first time he killed, Rhaenys realised, and it was that thought that snapped her back to reality and had her rushing after her brother and his beloved.

They arrived in the centre of the camp just in time to watch Ser Garlan dismember two bandits with much better equipment than their fellows in one smooth movement. Both of them howled into the night as they collapsed to the ground, staring at the blood bursting from their arms. Garlan – his usual smiles non-existent – grabbed one by the throat.

"Who sent you!?"

"Gods, please… please don't kill…"

Garlan sliced his throat open, then grabbed the second man.

"Tell me!"

"The little man! We call him the little man! He comes to us sometimes, tells us the best caravans to loot! I swear!"

"Who is this little man?!" Garlan snarled.

"I don't know! Short guy with a wispy beard! He always comes with guards, in red armour, and on a rich person's horse. I don't know anything else!"

"I believe you."

Garlan sliced his head clean off.

"Arya!"

"Jon…"

Rhaenys tore her gaze from the Tyrell Knight, instead following Jae and Margaery, who were both running across the field. Bodies lay strewn in all directions – Stark, Tyrell, and bandits all – but the majority of the fallen, and the three guards still alive, stood protecting two figures leaning against a water cask.

Arya, face pale as ice, red spattered all over her face and clothes, was clutching her middle with her right hand while her left clenched a blood-soaked dagger. Obella knelt beside her, holding a rag to Arya's belly.

Jae and Margaery sprinted to her side in near panic, falling to their knees. Arya – and Rhaenys swore then she'd never say another bad thing about her – refused to even cry, despite the wet blood all over her clothes. As Jae pulled her into a hug, she dropped the dagger, coughing loudly into the twilight air. Margaery took the cloth from Obella and cleaned it with the water cask, before cupping some with her hands and trickling it down the girl's throat.

Obella stood up on shaky legs, then locked eyes with Rhaenys. Her twelve-year-old cousin looked worn ragged, hands trembling. These were not the first people she had killed – Uncle Oberyn taught each of his daughters how to kill on their eighth birthday by having them deliver justice unto a child rapist. That didn't make killing again any easier. Rhaenys wished she could give the girl a hug, but doing so would undoubtedly reveal her. Obella knew that, shooting her a tired smile and a shake of the head in acknowledgement.

Jae and Margaery continued fussing over Arya, holding the silent girl for all she was worth as Garlan surveyed the three surviving guards. Two were wounded; the other appeared fine, if rattled. Then he moved to check on Rhaenys. She signalled that she was fine, so he turned towards the other slope.

Rhaenys didn't follow him as the Knight moved amongst the corpses, but she watched him with her eyes. He found two other living Tyrell troops and one Stark guard. The rest, near fifteen men in total, were all dead or beyond saving, so Garlan did what needed to be done.

"Margaery," Garlan said softly once he finished. "Get what you can't live without from the wheelhouse. You'll have to ride the rest of the way. Jon, with me."

Margaery nodded, letting Obella take over with the cloth once more. Then she rose with a shaky step and moved to the carriage – which had been unhitched from the horses. Only once she was inside the wooden shelter did Jae release the breath he was holding and smile down at Arya.

"You're going to be fine, alright?" He said, voice cracking. "Just stay here now, okay?" Arya nodded weakly, then, hesitantly, picked up her bloodied dagger. Rhaenys joined the six other surviving guards standing around the two girls.

Jae grabbed Rhaenys' shoulder then, giving her a heartfelt smile.

"Thank you."

Rhaenys only just remembered to lower her voice.

"Uh… it's no problem, milord. Just doing my job."

Jae nodded, as if that was all there was to it – in his mind, she supposed it was. Then he turned away and approached Garlan.

"You did well," the Knight said.

"You think there are more?" Jon asked softly. Garlan looked towards the tree line.

"I'd count on it. Red armour and a fat man with a rich horse? That screams Lannister to me, which means we need to be north of Moat Cailin before word gets out and whoever sent these fuckers knows they failed. We ride hard tonight and leave everything we can spare behind."

Jae nodded, then sprinted towards the horses. Rhaenys gulped, kneeling down and grabbing Arya and Obella with one hand each. The Stark girl's wounds were deep, but Rhaenys was no Maester and couldn't tell how bad it truly was. She did know that belly and gut wounds hurt more than most and carried the greatest risk of disease, so she pulled out her hipflask of Dornish Red and handed it to her.

Arya took it hesitantly, then took a deep swallow. Which immediately set on another round of coughing.

She would have to get used to the taste, because Rhaenys had a feeling she wouldn't see a Maester any time soon.

Mists and Mires

Jon didn't let Arya or Margaery out of his sight until they reached the Neck. Five days of hard riding with barely any breaks. They stopped at no inns, towns or keeps, refilling their water skins only before leaving the Green Fork behind.

He had killed a man. Many men. Without so much as a single thought. He'd moved like the wind, organic and fearless. They had tried to harm his family right in front of him. He was supposed to care. He'd killed people in cold blood. But he just couldn't bring himself to. Everyone said your first kill was the worst. If that was the truth, did that make him some psycho? He didn't think so. All Jon could think about was Arya, bloodied and silent. She hadn't said a single word since it happened. Obella had needed to explain the events to them. Of Arya stabbing the bandit that attacked them and getting sliced across the stomach as he fell. And he thought about Margaery. If that guard had moved a moment slower… Jon needed to be brave and strong for them.

Margaery rode the entire rest of the journey sat behind Jon – arms wrapped around his waist as they raced North. All of the survivors had doubled up on horses so they could switch out the beasts after they grew tired. The three sand-steeds fared far better than the Reach stallions, but even they grew tired after hours and hours of constant canter. Jon didn't mind in the slightest. Knowing she was right there, against his back at all times, was all that kept him sane. That and the sight of Arya and Obella huddled just as tightly as they switched between their two fillies.

Arya wasn't getting any better. They'd padded the slash across her middle and wrapped it as best they could, but the constant movement and lack of stitching ensured the wound didn't close. She couldn't stay awake for more than a few hours at a time, so had to ride pressed against Jon's chest or tied securely to her filly with Obella guiding – as she was the smallest of them.

But she hadn't said a word.

For someone who usually spoke all the time, it was absolutely heartbreaking.

The few times they stopped to sleep, Jon would hold her close to him, whispering soft songs and stroking her hair. Margaery – and for this he loved her even more – would lie on Arya's other side, and together they held her tight until she fell asleep. Obella and Garlan would stand guard at the door of the single tent they pitched, watching for any sign of trouble while the surviving soldiers cooked a meagre dinner. This was the cycle. You only got to sleep once everyone got a turn. And Garlan refused to stop more than once every six hours.

Jon had no complaints though. And none came from Obella – only twelve name days old – or any of the soldiers either. All were too terrified of who might be pursuing them to even think of complaining.

By the time Moat Cailin appeared from the misty air of the Crannog marshes, every single one of them was dead on their feet. But, even then, all the northerners gave sharp exclamations of shock at what they found.

Moat Cailin, as Jon had been taught, was a ruin. Only three towers were said to be even intact, and the once-mighty fortress was only manned in times of war. But even from a distance, the sounds of hammer and chisel were audible to all. Three towers certainly stood tall in the marshes – though one had a tree growing out of its wall – but so did two others, and a sixth was under construction. A wooden palisade blocked the causeway, and iron-headed spikes lined the edges. Crows' nests had been built atop all five towers, easy vantage points to destroy an oncoming army, and wooden rafts floated in the swamp waters, lanterns hanging from metal cages – tiny lights in the mist.

Margaery tensed behind him, gripping Jon around the middle with a ferocity he didn't understand. All he could do was nudge Arya back to wakefulness and squeeze Margaery's hand.

The ragged group of travellers rode up to what looked like a temporary fortification spanning the vast moat, workers up to their knees in filth pausing their work to watch them. They stopped before the gate, and before long, a short man with a wiry build and wispy brown hair appeared from the mists. He took one look at the ragged company, and his eyes settled on Arya. Instantly, he grabbed the arm of one of the workers and had him run for the Maester.

"Greetings, my lords. I'm Howland Reed. There's no need to stand on ceremony, as you all look exhausted, and I see you carry wounded."

"My thanks, Lord Reed," Garlan said, weariness lacing his voice. "A bed and some warm food will be much appreciated, and a Maester. But first, if you have a rookery, I need to send word to Winterfell and Highgarden immediately."

Lord Reed – and didn't Jon know a Lord Reed from somewhere? – nodded his head.

"We have ravens to White Harbour and Winterfell; Lord Stark will be more than happy to relay your messages…"

"What's going… Dear Gods in the Heavens above!"

Another man had just appeared from inside one of the towers, one Jon knew well. Wylis Manderly, Wyman Manderly's eldest son and the future Lord of White Harbour. Tall, thick-skinned and white-bearded, the man recognised Garlan and his party instantly, his previously slow pace breaking into a run.

"Lady Arya? Ser Garlan, Lady Margaery, and Jon Snow too? You've been put through the wringer! What on earth happened?"

Lord Reed's gaze snapped straight to Jon, eyes widening in what looked like recognition, though Jon had never met him before.

"We were attacked on the road, Lord Manderly," Garlan answered, swinging down from his horse. "I need to speak to Lord Stark and Lord Tyrell immediately."

"Of course," Wylis said. "I'll have my men prepare to cast off immediately. We'll set sail for White Harbour as soon as they're ready. Takes a few hours to get things set in these marshes, I'm afraid."

Garlan offered the man a tired smile.

"My thanks."

"I'll show you to the rookery," Howland said, as Wylis rushed past him and moved to help Jon lift Arya down from the saddle.

For the first time in days, Jon let himself breathe as he watched the Maester arrive and carry his little sister away.

The Gates of Winterfell

When Ned received word in the middle of the night that Jon and Arya had been attacked, he'd nearly had a fit. Within minutes, he'd been marching towards the stables in a frenzy, every single guard he passed falling into step beside him without a word. By the time he reached the gates, he had near a hundred men following him. Such was the fury of the Lord of Winterfell.

Gods give me strength. Arya…

If Robb hadn't found him as he saddled his horse, he might have actually ridden out into the wilds, intent on making all haste to White Harbour before he even stopped to think.

His son, Ned's brilliant, loyal son, had approached armed in full steel and furs, sword strapped to his side and another fifty men behind him.

He'd said, simply and without a single stutter, "Where are we going?"

That had been enough to bring Ned back to his senses. All his men – his son, Ser Rodrik and Maester Lewin and even Theon – stood ready to move on his command, without even knowing what had happened.

Ned swallowed, becoming a Lord once more. His place was here. He needed… he wanted to be riding as fast as possible. He needed to write to the Queen of Thorns and Mace Tyrell immediately. Fucking Lannisters. They dared attack my children!

"Jon, Arya and the Tyrell company were attacked in the Riverlands," Ned said, and Robb's entire face seemed to clench in horror. "Arya is injured, and they've been riding hard to escape their pursuers. They just reached Moat Cailin, and Wylis is ferrying them to White Harbour at once. Robb, take one hundred men to White Harbour and meet them there. Make sure they get back here safely. Rodrik, gather as many others as you can before dawn, then ride to Moat Cailin and reinforce the builders. I'll send more people after you. Understand, I want the repairs finished before the year is out, I don't care how many gold dragons or hours it takes."

"Aye, my lord."

"Aye, milord!" The entire crowd exclaimed. Stern faces mingled with looks of outrage and anger. Someone had dared attack the daughter of their liege lord.

Ned grabbed Robb's shoulder. Gods, but he was only fifteen, nearly sixteen, but in steel and fur, he looked a true man—a true Northman.

"Bring them home."

"I will," Robb said. "I swear it by the Old Gods and the New." He nodded once, then turned to the gathered men.

"I want one-hundred men saddled and provisioned within a quarter-hour. Anyone who isn't ready gets left behind! Move!"

Ned watched, prouder than he'd ever been, as the warriors of Winterfell moved without a single complaint to follow Robb's instruction. Behind them, maids and cooks rushed off to prepare provisions and shelter. Robb and Theon instantly moved to the stables and started saddling their horses, while Rodrik started bellowing orders of his own. Wintertown was to be woken immediately, and all able hands ready to ride by morning light.

It was near a week of worrying before he received news. Robb had arrived at White Harbour a few hours after Wylis did. Arya was okay, but she would have a wicked scar across her stomach for the rest of her days, and the Maester in White Harbour wasn't sure if it would ever be safe for her to bear children.

Catelyn had broken down in the middle of Maester Lewin's solar, and wouldn't stop crying for two days.

In the meantime, to try and stop himself from taking a sword and reducing some training dummies to straw, he wrote letters. To everyone he could think of. He wrote to Hoster Tully, demanding any survivors be found so that Ned could separate heads from necks himself. He wrote to Olenna for the first time since he'd left his children in the south, warning her of Garlan's words of Lannister involvement. A number of the Northern Lords were already on their way to Winterfell for Robb's name day, but any who weren't had a raven from Winterfell by the time the week was out, penned in Ned's own hand.

It was firm and straightforward. My daughter lies wounded atop a straw wagon riding to Winterfell. Someone tried to kill her; I intend to find out why.

Of course, Ned could admit through his furore that Arya probably hadn't been the target. It was far more likely that someone else was. But that would mean that someone else knew of Jon's true parentage. It would mean the Lannisters knew. Did it have to do with their scheme in Highgarden? Manipulating the accounts to subtly attack the North? Was this Tywin Lannister trying to get back at him? But if that were true, why not have an assassin kill Jon or Arya in Highgarden?

Finally, he visited the homes of every guardsman who'd been travelling with Jon and Arya and had fallen in their defence. Robb had given him the names of the survivors, so he made sure all the newly made widows and orphans would be well cared for.

It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. Especially when, every day, Ned had to sit across the table from Ser Jaime fucking Lannister himself.

Ned's ward, Tommen, was as Jon Arryn had told him he would be. A soft, timid and simple lad who cared little for much besides his cats – whom he'd brought with him to the North. He got on well with Bran, though, and the two boys had quickly become friends. Bran had even managed to encourage Tommen to join him during archery practice. He wasn't terrific, but Ned made an effort to help the boy and guide him personally, as Jon Arryn had done for him all those years ago. But everywhere he went, Jamie Lannister followed as a silent shadow.

Ned and Jamie both knew why he had been the Kingsguard sent with the Prince. Robert was having a grand jape at Jamie's expense, sending the Kingslayer to the one place he hated more than anywhere else. That being said, Ned had noticed a distinct tempering in Jamie's stuck-up attitude over the past three years. Last year, he'd even put aside his gripes enough to offer instruction to Robb. Since then, Robb and the Kingslayer trained every morning with the sunrise, and Ned was amazed to see the improvement in his skills.

He just didn't know what to think of the man. He clearly cared for his nephew, often playing with him when he asked, and he was never outright hostile to any of the servants. His barbed tongue only ever appeared when he spoke to the Lords, and to Ned in particular. But he would let it slide for Robb's sake – and because he couldn't exactly send the man away.

Ned found it hard to believe Jamie had any hand in what had happened on the road. He sent few ravens, usually only to his brother and sister, and none had been since they left Highgarden. That didn't put Ned at ease.

Nothing did until Robb's force came riding through the main gates two and a half weeks after leaving.

"Arya!" Catelyn screamed, bolting through the heavy doors of Winterfell's great hall. Never had Ned seen her move so fast. Sansa and Bran were on her heels, Ned not far behind them.

Robb and Jon were dismounting in the courtyard, Jon helping Lady Margaery – who, as Ned had predicted, had grown into a great beauty. Ser Garlan looked as if he'd put on twenty years of age, rather than four, with a hard-set expression contorting his mirthful demeanour. Then… Arya. Oh gods, Arya.

His little girl looked as though she'd had all the life sucked out of her world. She sat silently atop a carriage of straw, a Dornish girl of the same age beside her, and when she saw her family, offered only a weak smile and wave. There was barely any excitement or glee in her at all—no incessant chattering or jumping. There was just a pale-faced girl forced into a rapid aging she wasn't ready for, with a white bandage wrapped around her middle. It was stained with blood.

Ned greeted the Tyrells in a daze, thanking them and all their surviving men for protecting his children. Then, he shook the hand of every Stark survivor in turn, letting Catelyn and Sansa help the silent Arya and her friend down from the carriage. Bran threw himself at Jon instead, gripping his brother in a vice. Jon, Margaery, Theon and Robb barely acknowledged him. All of them were staring at Tommen Baratheon and his Lannister Kingsguard.

"Lord Stark?" Garlan asked, stepping up to Ned as he finished with the soldiers.

"Aye, Ser Garlan?"

"It's been a long journey, and I'm sure everyone could do with some food and bed, but before your men and household disperse, there's something I need to do."

Garlan drew his sword – a utilitarian weapon with little adornment save a rose etching on the crossguard – and placed it point first against the cobblestones.

"Jon Snow, step forward."

Ned's heart gave a single painful thud in his chest. All sound in the courtyard died; over a hundred people fall falling silent at once, eyes turned to Jon. He stood straight, jaw clenched, and stepped forward. His boy would never be tall, but he was built like a sword master, eyes razor-sharp and focussed. He looked like a king. Or rather, as a king should be.

"Kneel."

Jon did so, and Ned stepped up to Robb and Margaery. He grabbed his son by the shoulder, and the two of them shared a look of mutual pride. Bran was bouncing on his feet, realising what was about to happen, so Ned pulled him close.

"Jon Snow, for four years I've trained you, and not once have you ever disappointed me. You've outperformed every test I've assigned, and I know I'm far from ordinary knights in what I expect from a man. But your dedication, ferocity and skill are gold standard, and after your performance on the journey here, I have no qualms whatsoever of bestowing upon you the highest honour I can."

Garlan raised his blade and rested the steel on Jon's left shoulder. Ned was man enough to admit a tear slid down his face then.

"Do you swear to uphold the values and traditions of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and fight for King and Country should you be called upon to do so?"

"I swear it," Jon said, clearly trying incredibly hard not to smile. Garlan moved the sword to Jon's right shoulder.

"And do you swear to always behave with honour in the eyes of the Gods and protect those who cannot protect themselves?"

Ned froze. That was not the standard oath. Garlan should have said, 'Do you swear to always serve the Seven and protect those who cannot protect themselves.' He'd removed the reference to serving the Seven. A distinction like that wouldn't mean much to most in the courtyard, but any war veterans would know the difference, as would Wyman and Wylis – standing at the back of the host – and the other Lords who'd already reached Winterfell for Robb's name day, Maege Mormont and Rickard Karstark specifically. He'd effectively said Jon could swear to whatever god or gods he wanted.

"I swear it."

"Then rise, Ser Jon, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

That screamed Olenna Tyrell.

Jon rose to his feet, and Arya started clapping raucously. Not a moment later, everyone else in the square was on their feet and applauding. Garlan sheathed his sword and clapped Jon on the back before shoving him towards his family. Bran broke from Ned's hold, throwing himself at Jon's legs, while Robb mock bowed.

"Ser Jon."

"Oh, shut up you."

Jon locked eyes with Ned over Robb's shoulder, and Ned nodded, placing his fist over his heart. Gods, he was actually crying right now. In front of all his men.

Ned would never live this down.

It took near two hours for celebrations to die down. Catelyn and Maester Lewin brought Arya to the Maester's turret. Sansa had initially stayed with Jon to congratulate him, but before long, she'd vanished to her sister's bedside, and Ned saw her frantically weaving a prayer wheel as Arya slept. Bran wouldn't leave Jon, constantly pestering him with questions. Which was, ironically, how Jon had eventually met Tommen. Ned wasn't surprised that Jon instantly seemed to know how to treat the boy, and from what the Lord of Winterfell observed, he never once looked down on him or to him with disrespect. Ned ordered a grand feast thrown in Jon's honour, inviting all the men who'd ridden out with Robb in the middle of the night, as well as the surviving Stark and Tyrell guardsmen. Even Jaime looked to be enjoying himself, engaging in a conversation with Garlan. The only notable absence was Lady Margaery, who'd vanished not long after the feast started, claiming a desire to sleep in a warm bed. Ned certainly couldn't blame her.

After speaking with Rickard and Maege and telling them he would speak in confidence with them on the morrow, Ned – weary from weeks of sleeplessness and fear – trudged up to his solar.

He had not expected Margaery Tyrell to be sitting at his fireplace with a leather journal in her hands.

"Lord Stark," Margaery said, rising from her seat and offering him a polite curtsey.

"Lady Margaery, I looked for you at the feast."

"I wasn't there," she answered.

"Evidently. Is there something I can do for you?"

Margaery gestured to the door.

"Close the door and send your guards to the end of the hall. I've already covered the crawl space behind your wardrobe and plugged the listening tube by your desk. That can't have been easy to make, let me tell you."

Ned's heart skipped a beat, then, stomach sinking, did as she asked. When he returned, her arms were folded, journal tucked into the satchel at her side.

"Tell me, Lord Stark," she said at length, not taking her gaze from him for a second. "When were you going to tell Jon who his real parents are?"

And a frosted hand gripped Ned's heart in a vice.

Notes:

Dun, dun, dun!

I'll bet no one saw that coming.

Jamie, Bran and Arya will all be main POV characters in Book 2. Make of this information what you will.