PART I: Curious

Winterfell

300 AC

The deadly sharp edge of the gray-blue steel blade came right for him.

Had Starag Mormont been an untrained swordsman, he knew he would've practically cleaved in two from the torso down. His opponent's sword would've landed somewhere between his shoulder and his neck.

But Mormont was not just any odd swordsman. He had seen the attack coming two seconds before his opponent's arms had begun to move in the familiar arc of the overhead strike. Mormont decided to press forward and click the flat of his blade up and into the downward swing of his opponent's, sending the sword off course.

Robb Stark had grinned at this maneuver. He was quick enough to disengage from Mormont's advance and take up the familiar long stance that was ingrained into both their minds by Arthur Dayne.

"I've got you this time, old man." Robb grinned wolfishly at him. "Admit it, you're going to lose."

"Not when you're holding that sword an inch lower than it should be," Mormont said sharply. He slowly took on the hanging left stance, ready to peel into Robb's guard. "I'd say that's one extra lap added on."

"What?" Robb started. The slightly bewildered look in his eye showed his confusion. He thought he'd been impeccable in his technique. And he was at least for the most part. Mormont was just messing with him, though.

Mormont knew his words had distracted the younger man, and it had put him off his base. Mormont used this to his advantage and pressed forward again, snapping Longclaw hard against Robb's longsword and batting it to the side. The two blades had rung with a dull twang! And Robb was quickly put onto the defense.

Unable to compete with the sheer strength behind Mormont's blows and the inhuman speed with which he fought, Robb Stark was soon fatigued. Sweat began to pour down in large beads from the top of his forehead, soaking into his curly black hair and the growing beard on his sharp chin. His counters slowed down and he realized too late what had happened. By the time he saw Mormont's game, his longsword had been knocked clean out of his hands. It fell to the cold dirt floor of the courtyard.

"Yield." Robb Stark raised his hands in surrender. As Mormont lowered his sword, the younger man let out a sharp huff. "Can't believe I let you get away with that,"

"Happens to all of us at some point," Mormont said. "If I can disrupt your emotions with a few words, then you're not exactly in control of them, are you?"

"No." Robb agreed. "Something for me to work on, then. What's the punishment?"

Mormont grinned. Time to move on from the subject. Lesson learned. "Your form has gotten much better. Arthur would be proud," he said. "Ten laps."

Robb shook his head, though his smile betrayed his pride at being complimented. "Guess I ought to get started then." He said as he picked up his longsword and sheathed it. He glanced up into the bright morning sky, and at the sun that rose far in the east. Breakfast would be starting soon. "Save some honey at the table for me, will you?"

"Done. Now get running before I have you whipped." Mormont snickered.

Robb Stark didn't say another word. He simply tore off down toward the tall iron gate that led to Winterfell's outer wall. Soon enough, the young man was out of sight.

Mormont knew it would be a few good years until Robb Stark would be anywhere near Arthur's level of performance. But even then, he knew that Robb was leagues ahead of any southern knight when it came to swordplay. Perhaps sooner rather than later, he would be able to take up the position of Sword of the Morning. Though first, Robb would need to be knighted for such an honor.

Mormont waved the issue aside. He could easily bestow that particular blessing himself. As he himself was a knight.

Mormont quickly sheathed Longclaw and began making his way out of the courtyard and into the entrance of the Great Hall. He got a glance at the dining hall and saw the serving girls polishing the long wooden tables where the men would sit. There were about four of them wiping down the high table itself.

As he was making his way to the stairs, he soon saw a familiar older woman walking down the steps toward him. Though her yellow hair had greyed slightly more than last time, her smile was still rather sweet. Much the same as it had been six years earlier.

"Good morning, Mildrid." Mormont greeted her with a smile.

The older woman curtsied to him once she made it to the bottom of the stairs. "And to you as well, my lord!" Her brown eyes twinkled. "I was awake when you and Lord Robb went out into the courtyard, so I took the liberty of having a bath sent up to your room. I hope I didn't-"

"Of course not," Mormont waved his hand aside. "You're very thoughtful. Thank you, Mildrid."

Mildrid blushed in relief. "It's only my duty, Starag." Her cheeks reddened further when she leaned closer, not wanting anyone else to hear what she had to say. "And… Well, Lady Rhae wanted you to know that she also needed to use the bath… She's wakened last I'd seen her."

Mormont chuckled. "Naturally." He'd gotten the message. "Tell Lord and Lady Stark we might be a few minutes late for breakfast."

"Of course, my lord." Mildrid bowed again and walked off into the dining hall. Mormont could hear her beginning to raise her voice at a serving girl. "What was that I saw, Ysobel?!"

Mormont continued marching up the long spiral staircase. It had barely been two weeks since he'd gotten that letter from Ned. Already it seemed as if the outside world and all of its troubles were forgotten about.

As he climbed the last step, he carefully stepped out of the way as he saw the eleven-year-old Arya Stark being chased down the long grey halls by his oldest son.

Duncan, while younger than Arya, was nearly three inches taller than she was. Mormont watched as his son steadily kept pace with the girl, catching up with her as she laughed her lungs out.

"Give it back, Arya!" Duncan shouted, though his smile betrayed his enjoyment of the hunt he was embarking on. "That's my pin, not yours!"

Arya launched passed Mormont and flew down the stairs, completely ignoring him. Duncan, however, had come to a halt as soon as he saw his father. "Father! I-"

"Why are you stopping, son? Girl's done you wrong." Mormont stopped the boy midspeech. He nodded his head towards the retreating figure of Arya Stark. "Get after her."

Duncan smiled and bowed his head. He quickly ran down the stairs and was soon out of Mormont's sight. "If you don't give it back, I'll-" His voice faded into the hustle and bustle of the Great Hall.

As Mormont continued his stride down the long grey halls, he shook his head and snickered. The sight of his son chasing Arya had reminded him of another familiar memory. One that shared the same stage, but with different actors. Of another time in this same castle, with him chasing after another Stark girl.

As he recollected that distant memory and was reminded of the warm comforting buzz that had been associated with it, Starag Mormont knew that he was home.

"Again!"

Both combatants in the courtyard had raised their blades and assumed the stance taught to them by their instructor. Their footwork was laughable and their hands were spaced too far apart on the grips of their swords.

Mormont watched his son square off against Rickon Stark from atop the courtyard balcony. They both held sticks in their hands, though Mormont knew his son could wield a wooden practice blade just fine. Standing a good distance away from the both of them was Robb Stark, who was trying his hand at teaching swordplay to the younger boys.

Mormont preferred that Robb also get some experience with teaching. When one teaches something, one tends to retain more knowledge and information. It was the same ritual that Arthur had shown Mormont himself, and Starag would pass it down to the next generation of Dayne swordsmen.

Beside him stood Ned, who also watched the trio in the courtyard below. The Lord of Winterfell was looking rather wistful as if he was also running through his own pile of memories. "He passed just after seeing the petitioners." He continued.

Mormont looked away from the training yard and at his friend. "Who was the last person he spoke to?"

"He went up to the Tower of the Hand with Lord Varys. Apparently, the Spider had been talking with him one moment, looked out the window, and the next he knew, Jon Arryn was dead." Ned explained. He seemed rather unconvinced by the story he was relaying.

Neither was Mormont for that matter. "Poison?"

Ned shrugged his shoulders. "I already asked Oberyn. Doesn't know anything about a poison that instantly kills without showing symptoms or causing a reaction from the victim. He's looking into the matter, but I haven't heard back from him."

"What about the Spider?"

"He was shocked, to say the least. Came yelling and screaming for the guards by the time he realized what had happened." Ned informed. "Do you think he did the deed?"

Mormont shrugged. "It's possible. Jon's heart could've burst, though. Who knows what the Spider told him in confidence." He said. "But as you said, Jon was spry for his age."

Ned nodded in agreement. "He was still quite good with a lance supposedly." He looked back out over the courtyard and sighed. "It doesn't add up. Jon dies just days before Tywin Lannister and Lysa Tully arrive in King's Landing to come to an agreement. He passes in the middle of a private meeting with a member of the small council. Now the Lannisters and the Tullys are blaming each other, and the Seven Kingdoms are looking directly at King's Landing, waiting to see if war will break out. It seems far too…"

"Convenient. You're right, it does." Mormont finished his friend's sentence. He shook his head. "It's like we're all in a grand play and none of us know what our lines are or where the plot is going. I don't believe this fishwife's tale any more than you do. Someone wanted or needed Jon Arryn dead, and whoever it was wanted the people to see what's going on in King's Landing."

"Why is that?"

"Don't know," Mormont admitted. "But I don't like the smell of it. There are too many soldiers in the city for the people to ignore…"

Soldiers often took liberties in times of unrest. It wasn't uncommon for them to see themselves as having higher status than peasants. A farmer's livestock would disappear, and his stores raided. Next, they would make merry with his valuables, or if he had none-his wife or daughters if they were of age.

And in King's Landing, with the combined military might of the opposing Great Houses, all it would take was one tiny infraction with the Gold Cloaks, one single lit match for the casket of wildfire to go off and burn the city to the ground.

The people would suffer most of all. It was inevitable and likely by design. When people suffered needlessly, or at the hands of the nobles who protect them, their minds would be open to change, the possibility of something… new.

Before in times of peace, everything was easy. A farmer could enjoy the relative safety of country life apart from the odd bandit or thief. Why would he ever want to change that?

But with soldiers roaming the countryside looking for the opposition, with tensions running high, and men free to act as they please… Soon would come the demand for peace again, and for another leader to act as the agent of change.

But who exactly would that leader be? Tywin Lannister? Doubtful. He'd already had a long tenure as Hand of the King under Aerys. The people were aware of his reputation, even if he no longer had the Mountain in his pocket.

Lysa Tully? Perhaps, but she was practically unknown until her brother had been poisoned. With her father on his deathbed, she would take control of House Tully. And from what he knew of her, she was not a particularly likable woman.

Robert? Unlikely. He was at the center of this whole plot. He was the figurehead of the status quo. Even if he had been well-loved before, he'd lost much of his goodwill in recent years, what with the steep rise in taxes and this whole feud between the high lords of Westeros ruining thousands of people's lives.

Mormont considered the possibility that he was seeing the forest for the trees, that he was thinking far too deep into the matter. But there was that tiny little inkling of curiosity in the back of his mind. The knowledge that perhaps, just maybe, the wool was being pulled over his eyes with the deftness of an expert player of the Great Game.

That curiosity was an itch that soon turned into a blazing inferno in his mind. A part of him wanted to see how this whole thing would play out, to find out what it was really all about. Neither was Mormont about to let his old friend walk into the fire all by himself. If Mormont needed to go to King's Landing and unravel this mystery, then so be it.

"When do you leave for White Harbor?" Mormont asked.

"Five days from now," Ned answered with a questioning raise of his eyebrows. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I'm going with you," Mormont smirked. "Ashara would have my balls on a silver plate if I let you run off down South without me."

"But-"

"I'm going, Ned," Mormont said, clasping his old friend on the shoulder. "I know you're as curious as I am about this whole charade. We'll figure it out together."

Ned Stark decided against arguing with his old friend on the matter. "Well, I'll be glad to have you along." He smiled. "Robert told me he'll be throwing a winter tourney in my honor. Will you take part?"

Mormont cracked a grin in return. "Can't unfortunately. I'm a man of the gods, now."

Ned stifled a chuckle. "Sounds like a load of horse shit."

Both men had let out loud barks of laughter. Only briefly did the duel in the courtyard stop as both boys glanced up at the balcony to see their respective fathers laughing with one another. Both Duncan and Rickon had wondered just what they were laughing at, and whether or not it had to do with either of them. After a moment they looked at one another and shrugged, continuing their practice.

One of the guards on the balcony had approached the two laughing lords. He made his presence known by lightly tapping his spear against the wooden floor, making both Ned and Starag stop their carousing and look in his direction.

"What is it?" Ned had asked, wiping his smile away in an instant.

"The contingent from Queenscrown, my lord." The guard bowed. "It has been sighted by our scouts on the Kingsroad. It will arrive sometime in the evening."

Starag smiled. Jon would be coming here as well. Perhaps they could squeeze in a few sparring sessions before he left for King's Landing.

This line of thought was immediately followed by a sort of inner dread, the knowledge that once Jon Stark knew of his and Ned's plans to travel South, Jon would assign himself to their crew as well. And that there was nothing neither Starag nor Ned could do about it.

Shit. It wouldn't be the first dangerous excursion he'd taken Jon Stark on, and he had a distinct feeling that it wouldn't be the last, either. Jon was a man grown by now, and he could make his own decisions.

That didn't mean that Ned or Ashara were going to like it, though.

Ned nodded to the guard. Though when he looked back to Starag, there was a slick little smile on his face.

"Kitchens will be busy tonight."

"When do we leave?"

These were the first four words that had come out of Jon Stark's mouth after hearing everything that Ned had told Starag just earlier that day.

It was after dinner, and they had gathered inside Ned's solar. Rhaenys was sitting rather comfortably on Mormont's lap while Ashara stood beside Ned's chair. Margaery Tyrell was also present in the room, along with Gerold Hightower.

Ashara placed her hands together, trying to hide her shaking fingers and the nervousness she held as a mother. "Jon, dear- you shouldn't go. Not now with a civil war brewing in the South. What if Robert finds out?"

"I'll be with Father and Starag." Jon smiled at his surrogate mother. "We'll be careful."

Ned sighed heavily and ran a hand through his beard. "Somehow, I knew this would happen…"

"Don't know why you're so surprised." Jon shrugged his shoulders and glanced at his parents. "It's not as if I'm going to sit in Queenscrown while the realm burns. I'm not about to let the two of you take care of the problem for me."

Mormont couldn't exactly blame either party. Jon had been taught to face his problems head-on by Arthur, and the sense of responsibility he felt for the common folk, and for his own friends and family was certainly one of the factors that were driving him. Mormont knew well enough from the young man's bull-headedness only a year before. And from their adventures in Southern Westeros.

Ned and Ashara, however, were only concerned parents. Even if they weren't Jon's father and mother by blood, they didn't want him needlessly throwing his life away because of bravado. That was what had gotten Rhaegar and Brandon killed.

Likewise, Mormont felt Rhaenys grip his hand and squeeze it tight. He squeezed back. She didn't say a word, but Mormont knew she didn't want Jon to leave. It would be far too much for her to lose both her husband and her brother in one sitting. Mormont would need to address that later, once they were alone in his room.

"And we'll take our direwolves," Jon had added. "Ghost and Lya should inspire some… common sense into the soldiers. Especially since southerners don't typically see direwolves."

Ned gave Mormont a reluctant glance. One that asked him whether or not he would be insane for allowing this to happen and his dark brown eyes pleaded for some kind of acceptance.

Mormont nodded. There would be no point in arguing with Jon. As Rhaegar's son, he was responsible for the entire realm. Moreover, Jon wanted to help, a desire that certainly counted for something.

"That settles it, then. We'll speak no more of the matter." Ned reached for his pipe by the corner of his desk. "Now, you said you knew something about Lord Varys, the Master of Whispers on Robert's council?"

It was Gerold who stepped forward. "I suspect the Spider is behind all of this, Lord Stark. The eunuch did nothing to help calm Aerys' madness, and he foiled Rhaegar's plans to gather the lords and depose his father. He's always thrived well during chaotic times." Gerold said. "Granted, it's simply a suspicion and nothing more."

Eddard Stark lit the pipe in his mouth. "That makes things a bit more complicated." He nodded his thanks to Gerold, who stepped back behind Jon's chair.

"How so?" Mormont asked. He'd already been smoking from his own pipe.

Ned blew a fresh plume of smoke out of his mouth. He nodded to Ashara, who picked up the letter and handed it to Mormont. "Had this come in just the other night from Oberyn. Says that there's another man on Robert's small council who may be responsible for Lysa Tully's aggressive actions against the Lannisters."

"Who? What's his name?"

"Petyr Baelish, though he goes by Littlefinger. He's the Master of Coin on the small council. Supposedly he was good at handling the records in Gulltown, and Lord Arryn had him brought to King's Landing." Ned answered dryly. "Do you remember him from Riverrun?"

"Yes…" Mormont searched his mind for that distant memory. That was long ago, almost in an entirely different lifetime. Baelish was the boy that had challenged Brandon to a duel, all for Catelyn's hand.

Mormont couldn't help but snicker. That scrawny lad was behind all of this chaos? Must've been quite the cunning sod. "How is he connected to Lysa Tully?"

"They've known one another since they were children," Margaery spoke. "Or so grandmother has told me. He grew up with both Lady Catelyn and Lady Lysa."

Ned was right. This certainly did complicate matters. Two members of the small council were suspect as opposed to one.

Mormont steadily took the pipe out of his mouth, however, and pointed it at Ned. "When was Baelish placed on the small council?"

"Two years ago. Why?"

It was Jon who had put together Mormont's thoughts. "That was when the Tullys and the Lannisters started fighting."

"Exactly." Mormont nodded in agreement. "Smells wrong, doesn't it?"

Ned sank back into his seat and placed his hands behind his head. "It does…" He said slowly with the pipe between his teeth. Gently, he blew out another puff of smoke and took the pipe out of his mouth. "Oberyn said this man was sending frequent letters from Gulltown directly to Riverrun, though they all talked nonsense, supposedly. Oberyn even picked up a few of these letters after we'd sent him and his daughters to the Riverlands. He suspects that there's some sort of code or whatnot, some kind of hidden meaning between the lines." He shrugged. "Is it possible?"

"Perhaps," Mormont said. "I'd say it's too early for us to start pointing fingers, though. We need to know more."

Eddard nodded. "Agreed." He said. "We'll know more once we're in the South."

None of those present in the room were aware that as soon as they'd left behind the safe stone walls of Winterfell, the fuse leading to the great bomb that was about to go off, would spark and burn.

And at the center of it all would be Starag Mormont and Jon Stark. Once again he would go with his king into the lion's den. This time they'd take Ned along with them…

Mormont was not about to let Arthur's death happen all over again. He couldn't do that to Ashara. Whatever the cost, Mormont couldn't allow Ned to go to the Old Gods. Not now when his people needed him the most, and especially not with the Others still remaining a threat beyond the Wall.

Mormont plucked his pipe back into his mouth. Time to play the game.

For king and country.