The Sunset Starks

by SoulGamesInc

King Brandon the Shipwright sailed across the Sunset Sea, but never returned, his tomb in the crypts of Winterfell remaining empty. He made landfall on what would become the Sunset Islands and now generations later the youngest son of Brandon VII Stark attempts a return to Westeros. Winter is Coming.

22. Chapter 22: Succession

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.

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Chapter 22: Succession
"Trust sidesteps all precautions."
– Prince Willam Stark

He was walking through the crypts beneath Winterfell, as he had a thousand times before. The Kings of Winter watched him pass with eyes of ice, the direwolves at their feet snarling. Last of all, he came to the tomb where his father slept, with Brandon and Lyanna beside him. "Promise me, Ned," Lyanna's statue whispered.

She wore a garland of pale blue roses, and her eyes wept blood. Eddard Stark jerked upright, his heart racing, the blankets tangled around him.

The room was black as pitch, and someone was hammering on the door in the dead of night.

"Lord Eddard," a voice called loudly.

"A moment!" Groggily he stumbled his way across the darkened chamber.

When he opened the door, he found Tomard with an upraised fist, and Cayn with a taper in hand. Between them stood the king's own steward.

The man's face might have been carved of stone, so little did it show.

"My lord Hand," he intoned. "His Grace the King commands your presence. At once."

Robert had returned from his hunt then. It was long past time; the hour beyond late.

"I shall need a few moments to dress." Ned left the man waiting without. Cayn helped him with his clothes; white linen tunic and grey cloak, trousers and his badge of office; that Robert had all but forced upon him before his hunt. He was Hand of the King again, a position taken back out of necessity.

Who would protect Robert if not him, after all? Ned didn't have a damn choice but to help the man – essentially after he threatened to pin it on the Kingslayer.

The Red Keep was dark and still as Cayn and Tomard escorted him across the inner bailey. The moon hung low over the walls, ripening toward full. On the ramparts, a guardsman in a gold cloak walked his rounds. Ser Boros Blount guarded the far end of the bridge, white steel armour ghostly in the moonlight. Within, Ned passed three other knights of the Kingsguard; as Ser Preston Greenfield stood at the bottom of the steps while Ser Barristan Selmy and Jaime Lannister waited at the door of the king's bedchamber. Knights in white cloaks, he thought, remembering, and a strange chill went through him. Ser Barristan's face was as pale as his armour. Ned had only to look at him to know that something was dreadfully wrong. The royal steward opened the door. "Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King," he announced loudly.

"Bring him here," Robert's voice called, strangely thick.

Fires blazed in the twin hearths at either end of the bedchamber, filling the room with a sullen red glare. The heat within was suffocating.

Robert lay across the canopied bed. At the bedside hovered Grand Maester Pycelle, while Lord Renly paced restlessly before the shuttered windows. Servants moved back and forth, feeding logs to the fire and boiling wine. Cersei Lannister sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband. Her hair was tousled, as if from sleep, but there was nothing sleepy in her eyes. They followed Ned as Tomard and Cayn helped him cross the room. He seemed to move very slowly, as if he were still dreaming.

The king still wore his boots. Ned could see dried mud and blades of grass clinging to the leather where Robert's feet stuck out beneath the blanket that covered him. A green doublet lay on the floor, slashed open and discarded, the cloth crusted with red-brown stains. The room smelled of smoke and blood and death.

"Ned," the king whispered when he saw him. His face was pale as milk. "Come… closer..."

He had only to look down at Robert to know how bad it was. "What?" he began, his throat clenched.

"A boar," Lord Renly was still in his hunting greens, his cloak spattered with blood.

"A devil," Robert husked. "My own fault. Too much wine, damn me to hell. Missed my thrust."

"And where were the rest of you?" Ned demanded of Lord Renly. "Where was Ser Barristan and the Kingsguard?"

Renly's mouth twitched. "My brother commanded us to stand aside and let him take the boar alone."

Eddard Stark lifted the blanket. They had done what they could to close him up, but it was nowhere near enough.

The boar must have been a fearsome thing. It had ripped the king from groin to nipple with its tusks. The wine-soaked bandages that Grand Maester Pycelle had applied were already black with blood, and the smell off the wound was hideous. Ned's stomach turned. He let the blanket fall.

"Stinks," Robert said. "The stink of death – don't think I can't smell it. Bastard did me good, eh? But I paid him back in kind, Ned!" The king's smile was as terrible as his wound, his teeth a bloody red. "Drove a knife right through his eye. Ask them if I didn't. Ask them."

"Truly," Lord Renly murmured. "We brought the carcass back with us, at my brother's command."

"For the feast," Robert whispered. "Now leave us. The lot of you. I need to speak with Ned."

"Robert, my sweet lord…" Cersei began.

"I said leave," Robert insisted with a hint of his old fierceness. "What part of that don't you understand, woman?"

Cersei gathered up her skirts and her dignity and led the way to the door. Lord Renly and the others followed. Grand Maester Pycelle lingered, his hands shaking as he offered the king a cup of thick white liquid. "The milk of the poppy, Your Grace," he said. "Drink. For your pain."

Robert knocked the cup away with the back of his hand. "Away with you. I'll sleep soon enough, old fool. Get out."

Grand Maester Pycelle gave Ned a stricken look as he shuffled from the room.

"Damn you, Robert," Ned said when they were alone. He lowered himself to the bed, beside his friend. "Why do you always have to be so headstrong?"

"Ah, fuck you, Ned," the king said hoarsely. "I killed the bastard, didn't I?"

He didn't have the words fit for purpose. They all seemed too little…

"Gods have mercy," Robert muttered, swallowing his agony. "The girl. Daenerys. Only a child, you were right… that's why, the girl… the gods sent the boar… sent to punish me…" The king coughed, bringing up blood. "Wrong, it was wrong, I… only a girl… Varys, Littlefinger, even my brother… worthless… no one to tell me no but you, Ned… only you…" He lifted his hand, the gesture pained and feeble. "Paper and ink. There, on the table. Write what I tell you."

Ned smoothed the paper out across his knee and took up the quill. "At your command, Your Grace."

"This is the will and word of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and all the rest – put in the damn titles, you know how it goes. I do hereby command Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, to serve as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my… upon my death… to rule in my… in my stead, until my son Joffrey does come of age…"

That wouldn't do. The boy wasn't the rightful heir…

"Robert… "

Joffrey is not your son, he wanted to say, but the words would not come.

The agony was written too plainly across Robert's face; he could not hurt him more. Ned bent his head and wrote, but where the king had said "my son Joffrey," he scrawled "my heir" instead. The deceit made him feel soiled. The lies we tell for love, he thought. "What else would you have me say?"

"Say… whatever you need to. Protect and defend, gods old and new, you have the words. Write. I'll sign it."

"Robert," Ned said in a voice thick with grief. "You must not do this. Don't die on me. The realm needs you."

Robert took his hand, fingers squeezing hard. "You are… such a bad liar, Ned Stark," he said through his pain. "I've been wretched. Bad as Aerys, the gods spare me."

"No," Ned told his dying friend. "Not so bad as Aerys. Not near so bad as Aerys."

Robert managed a weak red smile. "You won't fail me. You'll rule now. You'll hate it, worse than I did, but you'll do well. Are you done with the scribbling?"

"Yes, Your Grace." Ned offered Robert the paper. The king scrawled his signature blindly, leaving a smear of blood across the letter.

"Serve the boar at my funeral feast," Robert rasped. "Apple in its mouth, skin seared crisp. Eat the bastard. Don't care if you choke on him. Promise me, Ned."

"I promise, Robert…"

"Promise me, Ned," Lyanna's voice echoed in his skull.

"The girl," the king said. "Daenerys. Let her live. If you can. And help my son, Ned. Make him be… better than me. Gods have mercy…"

"They will, my friend," Ned said. "They will."

The king closed his eyes and seemed to relax.

"Killed by a pig," he muttered. "Ought to laugh, but it hurts too much."

Ned was not laughing. "Shall I call them back?"

Robert gave a weak nod. "As you will. Gods, why is it so cold in here?"

The servants rushed back in and hurried to feed the fires. The queen had gone; that was some small relief to Ned, at least. If she had any sense, Cersei would take her children and fly before the break of day, Ned thought. She had lingered too long already. He'd warned her to be gone and yet she lingered…

King Robert did not seem to miss her. He bid his brother Renly and Grand Maester Pycelle to stand in witness as he pressed his seal into the hot yellow wax that Ned had dripped upon his letter. "Now give me something for the pain and let me die."

Hurriedly Grand Maester Pycelle mixed him another draught of the milk of the poppy. This time the king drank deeply.

His black beard was beaded with thick white droplets when he threw the empty cup aside.

"Will I dream?" Robert asked his friend.

Ned gave him his answer. "You will, my lord."

"Good," he said, smiling. "I will give Lyanna your love, Ned. Take care of my children for me."

The words twisted in Ned's belly like a knife. For a moment he was at a loss. He could not bring himself to lie. Then he remembered the bastards: little Barra at her mother's breast, Mya in the Vale, Gendry at his forge, and all the others. "I shall guard your children as if they were my own," he said slowly.

Robert nodded and closed his eyes. Ned watched his old friend sag softly into the pillows as the milk of the poppy washed the pain from his face. Sleep took him.

Heavy chains jangled softly as Grand Maester Pycelle came up to Ned. "I will do all in my power, my lord, but the wound has mortified. It took them two days to get him back. By the time I saw him, it was too late. I can lessen His Grace's suffering, but only the gods can heal him now."

"How long?" Ned asked the old maester with a hint of dread.

"By rights, he should be dead already. I have never seen a man cling to life so fiercely."

"My brother was always strong," Lord Renly said. "Not wise, perhaps, but strong." In the sweltering heat of the bedchamber, his brow was slick with sweat. He might have been Robert's ghost as he stood there, young and dark and handsome. "He slew the boar. His entrails were sliding out, yet somehow he slew the boar."

"Robert was never a man to leave the battleground so long as a foe remained standing," Ned told him.

Outside the door, Ser Barristan Selmy still guarded the tower stairs; while the Kingslayer had seemingly vanished with his sister.

"Maester Pycelle has given Robert the milk of the poppy," Ned told him. "See that no one disturbs his rest without leave from me."

"It shall be as you command, my lord." Ser Barristan seemed old beyond his years. "I have failed my sacred trust."

"Even the truest knight cannot protect a king against himself," Ned said. "Robert loved to hunt boar. I have seen him take a thousand of them."

He would stand his ground without flinching, his legs braced, the great spear in his hands, and as often as not he would curse the boar as it charged, and wait until the last possible second, until it was almost on him, before he killed it with a single sure and savage thrust. "No one could know this one would be his death."

"You are kind to say so, Lord Eddard."

"The king himself said as much. He blamed the wine."

The white-haired knight gave a weary nod. "His Grace was reeling in his saddle by the time we flushed the boar from his lair, yet he commanded us all to stand aside."

"I wonder, Ser Barristan," asked Varys, so quietly, "who gave the king this wine?"

Ned had not heard the eunuch approach, but when he looked around, there he stood. He wore a black velvet robe that brushed the floor, and his face was freshly powdered. "The wine was from the king's own skin," Ser Barristan said, deep in his own thoughts.

"Only one skin? Hunting is such thirsty work."

"I did not keep count. More than one, for a certainty. His squire would fetch him a fresh skin whenever he required it."

"Such a dutiful boy," said Varys, "to make certain His Grace did not lack for refreshment."

Ned had a bitter taste in his mouth. He recalled the two fair-haired boys Robert had sent chasing after a breastplate stretcher when the man had his thoughts of joining the melee. The king had told everyone the tale that night at the feast, laughing until he shook. "Which squire?"

"The elder," said Ser Barristan. "Lancel."

"I know the lad well," said Varys. "A stalwart boy, Ser Kevan Lannister's son, nephew to Lord Tywin and cousin to the queen. I hope the dear sweet lad does not blame himself. Children are so vulnerable in the innocence of their youth; how well do I remember."

Certainly, Varys had once been young, but Ned doubted that he had ever been innocent.

"You mention children. Robert had a change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryen."

"Alas," said Varys. "I fear those birds have flown. But I shall do what I can, my lord. With your leave." He bowed and vanished down the steps, his soft-soled slippers whispering against the stone as he made his descent down the cold steps.

Willam arrived then, passing Lord Varys; dressed in mail and plate as if he were off to battle – with a silver-and-onyx circlet in his hair.

"Ned," He spoke as he approached, two men flanking him with stern faces alongside his midnight black direwolf.

"Willam, you're here? Who told you-"

"The whole castle knows, it's perhaps the worst kept secret of all Ned."

In truth, he'd been woken by his men for exactly that reason. The whole castle was practically alive.

"Come," Willam motioned to the stairwell.

"Why come here yourself?"

"I wished to bid dear Robert farewell, naturally…"

A poor lie, Ned thought; since the man hadn't so much as asked after the king.

"You didn't see him," Ned countered as they descended the stairs.

"Do I need to?" Willam argued, brow raised. "Half his entrails are across the courtyard Ned. I'm sorry, it's bad isn't it?"

"Aye," Ned admitted sadly, looking twice his years. "He'll not last long I fear…"

King Robert of the House Baratheon would likely not survive the night, such were the castle whispers, a fact anyone of the servants and guardsmen and citizens could attest to as they'd witnessed the king with half his stomach hanging out as he bled over half the kingswood; then the damn city streets.

Willam had to admit, the man was a tough bastard to have lived even this long. There were few strengths so sturdy as stubbornness.

Greycloaks were outside the holdfast, all fully armoured and armed; standing vigil – very much on edge.

"Lord Eddard!" A voice called out as they stepped into the watchful gaze of Willam's men.

Renly clearly hadn't been expected the fifty-something Stark guards when he stepped out – all locked onto him as if he were a threat – prepared to cut the man down at the drop of a single word from their prince. Renly Baratheon stepped forward somewhat nervously. "A moment of your time, my lord?"

Ned stopped in his tracks, turning to face the man. "As you wish."

Renly walked to his side. "Send your men away..."

"They're not his," Willam countered. "They're mine."

"The same to you then Prince Willam," Renly said, clearly annoyed.

All it took was a nod to Aedan for the man to bark an order, as the Greycloaks bowed their heads; taking point on either side of the bridge.

They met in the centre of the bridge, the dry moat beneath them. Moonlight silvered the cruel edges of the spikes that lined its bed. Lord Renly glanced warily at Ser Boros on the far end of the span, at Ser Preston in the doorway behind them; but a wall of grey cloaks and shields stood firmly between them and him.

"That letter," He leaned close. "Was it the regency? Has my brother named you Protector?" He did not wait for a reply. "My lord, I have thirty men in my personal guard, and other friends besides, knights and lords. Give me an hour, and I can put a hundred swords in your hand…"

"And what should I do with a hundred swords, my lord?"

"Strike! Now, while the castle sleeps." Renly dropped his voice to an urgent whisper, the man giving even Willam a run for his paranoia at this rate. "We must get Joffrey away from his mother and take him in hand. Protector or no, the man who holds the king holds the kingdom. We should seize Myrcella and Tommen as well. Once we have her children, Cersei will not dare oppose us. The council will confirm you as Lord Protector and make Joffrey your ward."

"It could work," Willam found himself agreeing, much to Renly's momentary joy. "I've plenty of my own; plus your guards Ned…"

Ned regarded them both coldly. "Robert is not dead yet. The gods may spare him. If not, I shall convene the council to hear his final words and consider the matter of the succession, but I will not dishonour his last hours on earth by shedding blood in his halls and dragging frightened children from their beds."

Lord Renly took a step back, taut as a bowstring. "Every moment you delay gives Cersei another moment to prepare."

"He's right Ned," once again, Willam agreed. "My men are ready; we've delayed long enough as it is – now with Lord Renly's help we can end this."

Willam had given the situation a degree of thought. He still didn't have an answer for the why behind Jon Arryn's death, but had ultimately decided that one thing he did know was that a woman like Cersei Lannister wasn't going to surrender power peacefully; even with Eddard named regent by a piece of paper.

A show of force would be necessary, there wasn't any doubts in his mind. And thus, he'd rallied his men here without so much as asking Ned.

"By the time Robert dies, it may be too late!" Renly argued, looking to Willam for further agreement. "We must strike while the castle sleeps!"

"Then we should pray that Robert does not die."

"Small chance of that," said Renly with an annoyed scoff.

"Sometimes the gods are merciful."

"The Lannisters are not," Lord Renly turned away and went back across the moat, to the tower where his brother lay dying.

"You should take his offer Ned," Willam insisted, frowning at the refusal. Extra swords would be a boon.

"I will not pull helpless children from their beds while Robert still draws breathe, damn it!"

Willam eyed the man, honourable and steadfast and loyal to his dying friend. He couldn't fault the man his principles, even if he knew them to be foolish.

"Very well then," he relented with a sigh. "Allow me to see your children to safety at least? The Queen will not surrender peacefully even with the letter, you must see that – the castle will not be safe for them should the worst occur and this ends in bloodshed. I can have some of my best escort them to the Wanderer."

Cersei Lannister hadn't left, that much was clear to Ned; even after he'd warned her to do so… but now Robert was to die, and the future was grim…

"So be it," Ned agreed reluctantly. "Jon must go with them however, that is my condition Will – the boy cannot stay behind."

"As you wish. He'll hate it, but you're the lad's father…"

The words "Promise me Ned" echoed again, taunting him in the dark of night.

Prince Suko was leant against the entry to the Tower of the Hand, waiting; as if he were expecting him – and in truth he was – the man was eating an apple without a care in the world. "Stark," He greeted Willam then eyed Ned cautiously. "Other Stark. How goes the plan gentlemen?"

Ned looked at him with no small amount of confusion.

"More delays I'm afraid," Willam answered as if it were some grand jest.

"More?" Suko scowled then, eyes darting to Ned in question.

They'd planned all of this without him, hadn't they!? Ned found his tolerance wearing away.

"I need you to gather up Ned's pups and take them to the boat, Suko."

The foreign prince hummed in thought.

"Fleeing then, is it?"

"Just to the ship – while we handle things here."

"You're asking me to stay with the whelps," Suko frowned at that.

"I need someone I can trust Suko," Willam mustered a smirk. "Aedan is occupied, so that leaves you; my friend."

He scoffed at that. "So be it, but if I hear you having fun without me Stark-"

"You'll not come running, even then – you'll see the children safe."

Suko stared at him, biting into his apple again before muttering "very well" and leaning off the wall.

"Aedan, Ivar," Willam turned to the men at his flank.

"Aye, Will?"

"My Prince?"

"Wake the pups, hand them to Suko and twenty or so men; understand?"

The two departed with simple nods, entering the tower and going up the stairs – off to the bedchambers to wake young Starks.

"How many men do we have?" Ned asked, a frown still etched onto his features.

"I brought a hundred cloaks south on the Wanderer," Willam recalled, looking to Suko who gave a nod to confirm. "Fifty were sent south with Suko and yourself alongside your own fifty guardsmen; minus say twenty swords we send with the children – and another twenty that were left behind on the ship… so that leaves…"

"A hundred and sixty," Suko answered, finishing his apple.

"Make it fifty and take an extra ten with you to the ships…"

"You sure?" Suko wondered aloud. "The fighting will be here."

"Aye, the children must be kept safe."

Ned was silently brooding as thoughts raced.

"There will be no fighting," he argued stubbornly.

"In a perfect world," Willam said with a sigh.

"It's far from perfect," Suko added immediately, all levity gone.

A moment later they came down the stairwell flanked by guards and direwolves.

"Father?" Arya was the first to ask, looking up with sleepy eyes.

"What's going on?" Sansa asked, clearly shaken by her rude awakening.

"Girls," Ned faced the with a sad smile – that turns to confusion.

"Where is Bran?" Jon Snow asked, coming down after his sisters.

"We've a problem my lord," Jory Cassel answered the boy's question.

"Lord Bran wasn't in his chambers," Ivar added anxiously.

"What!?" Ned barked.

"Who was posted at his door?"

"I was m'lord," Tom bowed his head. "I swear, the little lord never left by the door – and nobody entered!"

Well, this was unfortunate to say the least. The gods were teasing them, Willam knew… this reeked of the gods…

"Ivar," Will called on the man. "Take ten men, search the damn castle – but do it discreetly."

He ran off with little delay at that, gathering up a handful of men for the search.

"Rowana, you know your role – see to it please…"

"At once Prince Willam!" She hurried off with a letter in her grasp.

"Ned," he asked the boy's father. "Any ideas?"

"No," Ned replied with a weary look. "He hasn't been sleeping lately, but-"

Had anyone ever actually checked if the boy was in his bed before? He'd claimed nightmares… but was he simply not abed at all…

"Cersei could've taken him," Suko suggested openly.

"No," Tom the guardsman refused. "Nobody entered, I swear it!"

"No sign of the wolf either?" Willam asked. "No sigh of a struggle?"

"No," again the guardsman denied. "Not so much as a disturbance, I swear on me wife and kids!"

"I believe you Tom," Ned assured the man; who looked genuinely disturbed.

So, the boy has vanished from his own chambers – with his wolf too – without anyone seeing.

"The gods are definitely fucking with me," Willam muttered under his breath.

"Girls," Ned knelt by his daughters. "The city is no longer safe – you must go with Prince Suko."

"Are we going to Will's ship!?"

"This isn't fair father!" Sansa barked.

"What about Bran?" Jon seemed conflicted. "I should stay with you father, if it's not safe – then I can help!"

"No," Ned refused the boy fiercely. "Jon, you must protect your sisters; do you understand lad?"

Jon Snow seemed ready to refuse, but one glance at Arya seemed to give steel to his courage.

"I promise father," he swore bravely.

Eddard Stark looked like he'd seen a ghost.

"This is goodbye then Stark," Suko said, all smiles.

"Don't seem so joyful for it eh Lóng?"

A moment passed before the two men embraced briefly.

"Stay safe brother," Willam patted his friends back.

"I'll keep the whelps safe," Suko swore it. "Isn't that right, whelps?"

"I'm not a whelp!" Arya protested, pouting at the man.

Sansa hadn't stopped her silent weeping at having to leave.

"Come on Arya," Jon nudged her. "You'll get to sail, aren't you excited?"

"Aye," She said, but frowned; thinking dark thoughts.

"Bran will be fine," Jon promised her easily. "They'll find him – besides, he has Summer, remember?"

Arya Stark could only nod and put on a brave face, even as her sister whined about how unfair things were.

It was after saying his goodbyes to the whelps that Ned Stark walked up the stairs of the tower, citing a need to collect his thoughts – leaving Willam alone at the base of the tower with his people. "We're cutting this close Will," the voice of Edwyn perked up from the stairs.

"Ned refuses to leave his king," Willam sighed at the notion.

"Respectable," Edwyn thought aloud. "Loyal too…"

"Loyal, aye, but foolish – the man is near enough dead…"

In an instant, Wraith was growling; and the greycloaks stood at attention.

The man approached, clad in a blue velvet tunic with puffed sleeves, his silvery cape patterned with mockingbirds and flanked by two Goldcloaks at his side – as they nervously approached the heavily guarded tower. "Lord Baelish," Willam eyed the man from a mile away. "To what do we owe this unfortunate displeasure?"

"You wound me Prince," Baelish held a hand to his heart.

"Answer the question or be gone, my lord."

The greycloaks looked like they'd happily run him through.

"Very well – I have come to speak with my friend Ned."

"Is that so?" Willam eyed the man. They were 'friends' now, were they?

"Quite so," the mockingbird held a twisted grin. "If you'd just let me pass…"

Willam stared blankly at the man as Wraith growled. The wolves were good judges of character.

"I don't like you, Baelish," he told the man bluntly.

"Oh? If I have given some offence, it was not my-"

"You remind me of Prince Suko's brother," Aedan added with a blank look.

"Which one though," Willam wondered aloud.

"Does it really matter?"

It really didn't. They were all unpleasant men…

"You flatter me," Baelish's smile was a foul thing, full of greed. "To be compared to a Prince of all things, a great honor; no doubt…"

"You don't know him, Lord Baelish; but he's – what's the word in andal Will?"

"Cunt," Willam answered his friend with a devious smirk. "He's a cunt."

"Yes!" Aedan exclaimed happily. "That's the word. Cunt…"

Lord Petyr's twisted smile died on his lips; his eyes narrowed.

"May I pass or not?" He demanded; all pretence of friendliness dropped.

"As you wish, but your guards aren't welcome," Willam decided. "I'll accompany you instead."

"That hardly seems necessary-"

"It wasn't a request, my lord."

Baelish moved forward with reluctant agreement.

"Mind your step," Edwyn called out. "These stairs are perilous in the dark!"

Baelish spoke "I have a torch" as he passed them by, going up the stairwell; leaving his guards behind.

"Charming fellow," Edwyn muttered in the Old Tongue as Willam followed the man up.

"I'd call him a snake if wasn't an insult to snakes," Aedan sighed, tired and wary. "Still, best be about your own business Fisher…"

"Aye," Edwyn hummed for a moment. "As you say Greystark."

Atop the tower, Eddard Stark sat staring at the flame of the candle that burned beside him on the table. For a moment, his grief overwhelmed him. He wanted nothing so much as to seek out the godswood, to kneel before the heart tree and pray for the life of Robert Baratheon, who had been more than a brother to him.

Ned took out the king's last letter. A roll of crisp white parchment sealed with golden wax, a few short words and a smear of blood.

He drew out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his quill in the inkpot. "To His Grace, Stannis of the House Baratheon, he wrote. By the time you receive this letter, your brother Robert, our King these past fifteen years, will be dead. He was savaged by a boar whilst hunting in the kingswood…"

The letters seemed to writhe and twist on the paper as his hand trailed to a stop. Lord Tywin was not a man to suffer disgrace meekly; so they would fight rather than flee. No doubt Lord Stannis was wary, after the murder of Jon Arryn, but it was imperative that he sail for King's Landing at once with all his power to secure the capital.

Ned chose each word with care. When he was done, he signed the letter as "Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, and Protector of the Realm" then blotted the paper, folded it twice, and melted the sealing wax over the candle flame. His regency would be a short one, he reflected as the wax softened. The new king would choose his own Hand. Ned would be free to go home. The thought of Winterfell brought a wan smile to his face. He longed for the old days, to go hawking with Robb, to watch Rickon at play. He wanted to drift off to a dreamless sleep in his own bed with his arms wrapped tight around his lady, Catelyn.

Cayn and Desmond arrived at his door then, with Littlefinger and Willam between them. Ned thanked his guards and sent them away.

"I suppose congratulations are in order," Petyr said as he seated himself without invitation.

Willam walked in, with Wraith at his heels; to Ned's side of the desk.

Ned scowled. "The king lies wounded and near to death."

"I know," Littlefinger said. "I also know that Robert has named you Protector of the Realm."

Ned's eyes flicked to the king's letter on the table beside him, its seal unbroken. "And how is it you know that?"

"Varys hinted as much," Littlefinger said, "and you have just confirmed it."

Ned's mouth twisted in anger. "Damn Varys and his little birds. I do not trust him..."

"Excellent. You're learning." Littlefinger leaned forward. "Yet I did not come here in the black of night to discuss the eunuch…"

"No," Ned admitted with some hesitance, as his eyes flickered between Willam and Petyr. "I know the secret Jon Arryn was murdered to protect. Robert will leave no trueborn son behind him. Joffrey and Tommen are Jaime Lannister's bastards, born of his incestuous union with the queen..."

"That's the connection then," Willam mused. "To the bastards? To the book?"

"Aye," Ned admitted sadly.

"Well," Willam frowned. "This changes thing's…"

Littlefinger simply lifted an eyebrow at the declaration.

"Shocking," he said in a tone that suggested he was not shocked at all. "The girl as well? No doubt. So when the king dies…"

"The throne by rights passes to Lord Stannis, the elder of Robert's two brothers."

Lord Petyr stroked his pointed beard as he considered the matter. "So it would seem. Unless…"

"Unless, my lord? There is no seeming to this. Stannis is the heir. Nothing can change that."

"Stannis cannot take the throne without your help. If you're wise, you'll make certain Joffrey succeeds."

What game was Baelish playing? Willam eyed the man warily, a hand resting on Frostbite's pommel. It would be an easy thing; to kill him here.

Ned gave him a stony stare. "Have you no shred of honor?"

"Oh, a shred, surely," Littlefinger replied negligently. "Hear me out. Stannis is no friend of yours, nor of mine. Even his brothers can scarcely stomach him. The man is iron, hard and unyielding. He'll give us a new Hand and a new council, for a certainty. No doubt he'll thank you for handing him the crown, but he won't love you for it. And his ascent will mean war. Stannis cannot rest easy on the throne until Cersei and her bastards are dead. Do you think Lord Tywin will sit idly while his daughter's head is measured for a spike? Casterly Rock will rise, and not alone. Robert found it in him to pardon men who served King Aerys, so long as they did him fealty. Stannis is less forgiving. He will not have forgotten the siege of Storm's End, and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dare not. Every man who fought beneath the dragon banner or rose with Balon Greyjoy will have good cause to fear. If you seat Stannis on the Iron Throne and I promise you; the realm will bleed…"

The man was laying his cards on the table, brazen as you please; the scale of his ambition was growing clearer and clearer to Willam.

"Now look at the other side of the coin. Joffrey is but twelve, and Robert gave you the regency, my lord. You are the Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm. The power is yours, Lord Stark. All you need do is reach out and take it. Make your peace with the Lannisters. Wed Joffrey to your Sansa. Wed your younger girl to Prince Tommen, and your heir to Myrcella. It will be four years before Joffrey comes of age. By then he will look to you as a second father, and if not, well, four years is a good long while. Long enough to dispose of Lord Stannis. Then, should Joffrey prove troublesome, we can reveal his little secret and put Lord Renly on the throne."

There was a large caveat right there. Wraith was looking rather hungry…

"We?" Ned repeated, having not failed to notice.

Littlefinger gave a shrug. "You'll need someone to share your burdens. I assure you; my price would be modest."

"Your price?" Ned's voice was ice. "Lord Baelish, what you suggest is treason."

"Only if we lose."

"There's this 'we' again," Willam raised a brow. "Your ambition is showing, my lord…"

"You forget," Ned told him. "You forget Jon Arryn. You forget Robert, my king, my friend; my brother!"

Littlefinger sighed. "I fear I did forget, my lord. I did not remember that I was talking to a Stark. So it will be Stannis, and war?"

"It is not a choice, Littlefinger. Stannis is the heir by all the laws of the realm."

"Far be it from me to dispute the Lord Protector. What would you have of me, then? Not my wisdom, for a certainty."

Willam scoffed audibly. "You mistake wisdom for greed, Baelish."

"I shall do my best to forget your… wisdom," Ned said with distaste. "This is a perilous hour for all of us. Robert has named me Protector, true enough, but in the eyes of the world Joffrey is still his son and heir. The queen has a dozen knights and a hundred men-at-arms who will do whatever she commands… enough to give us quite the fight; even with Prince WIllam's men at our back – things could turn ugly. I'd rather avoid that my lord…"

"And what of Lord Renly?" Littlefinger toyed with the idea. "There is small love lost between Lord Renly and the Lannisters. Bronze Yohn Royce, Ser Balon Swann, Ser Loras, Lady Tanda, the Redwyne twins; each of them has a retinue of knights and sworn swords here at court…"

"Renly has thirty men in his personal guard, the rest even fewer. It is not enough, even if I could be certain that all of them will choose to give me their allegiance. I must have the gold cloaks. The City Watch is two thousand strong, sworn to defend the castle, the city, and the king's peace."

"Ah, but when the queen proclaims one king and the Hand another, whose peace do they protect?"

Willam wanted to answer "they follow their king" but knew better. This wasn't Winterhold. Not by a long shot.

"They follow the man who pays them." Baelish leaned back and looked Ned full in the face, his grey-green eyes bright with mockery. "You wear your honor like a suit of armour, Stark. You think it keeps you safe, but all it does is weigh you down and make it hard for you to move. Look at you now. You know what you want to ask me to do. You know it has to be done, but it's not honourable, so the words stick in your throat."

Ned was so angry in that a moment that he did not trust himself to speak.

Littlefinger laughed. "I ought to make you say it, but that would be cruel, so have no fear. For the sake of the love I bear for Catelyn, I will go to Janos Slynt this very hour and make certain that the City Watch is yours. Six thousand gold pieces should do it. A third for the Commander, a third for the officers, a third for the men. We might be able to buy them for half that much, but I prefer not to take chances." Smiling, he got up from his seat; keeping his distance from Wrath's hungry maw.

"I don't like this Ned," Willam spoke only after the man had left and Wraith calmed down.

The night was growing older by the second. It wouldn't be long before the light of dawn arrived.

---

The inn was a tall daub-and-timber building, but warm yellow lights spilling from the windows made it fairly inviting. Any escape from rain was a pleasant one.

At this hour, the inn was crowed, the common room filled with peasants and knights alike; as many locals here as there were stragglers from the Hand's Tourney. Edwyn Fisher entered the establishment dressed in a fine black cloak to cover his plate and chainmail; with a fine longsword on his hip – many eyes fell on him and his four Greycloak friends as they entered. Those same eyes lost interest quickly enough though, dismissing him as just another knight or petty noble lordling perhaps.

"Fetch yourself a table, Harrold," Edwyn dismissed his guards. "Have a drink or two…"

"Aye m'lord," the man walked away to ask the Innkeep for a table along his three fellows.

A young lordling in a fine satin cloak decorated with stars sat at a table not far from the Inn's entrance, with a number of knightly looking fellows in similar attire to his own – and two men in yellow-and-blacks with cloaks decorated with black nightingales. The one who stood out was a fat balding man in flowing red robes.

The sound of "And then I told her, now that's a sword!" came from their table, as those present laughed.

"Ale tastes like dirt," the red man said with a scowl as he gulped down more of the thick ale-like substance.

The man's friend, in his lightning cloak, rolled his eyes; scoffing. "And yet you drink it still Thoros!"

"I'd eat horse if I were hungry enough, Beric!" The red robed man replied, emptying his cup of the dirt-coloured ale as the others laughed.

They all turned to eye Edwyn as he approached, no doubt noting the steel at his hip and his fine cloak. He looked every inch a noble, or at least some knight.

"Can we help you mate?" A pox-ravaged man asked. Stale bread in front of him remained uneaten as he looked to the arrival.

"My brother forgets his courtesy but means well," the man beside him spoke, a smile on his lips; he wore an obsidian nightingale clasp on his cloak.

"My lords," Edwyn managed most politely, speaking the andal tongue as best he could. "My name is Edwyn Fisher and-"

"You've a queer accent," the one with a pox-ridden face remarked absently.

"Brother," the nightingale scolded quickly. "You were saying, Ser Fisher?"

"May I sit?" Edwyn tried his luck, smiling warmly. "The Lord Hand sent me on business."

The table shared quick glances at that.

"Lord Stark sent you?" The lightning lord said, seeming out at ease. "Well then…"

"Sit," the nightingale said gladly. "Any friend of King Robert's is a friend of ours."

They didn't know then. Half the city did by now, but it seemed not this half…

"I bring grave news then my lords," Edwyn said sadly, taking his seat beside the pox-ridden man.

"Oh?" The red robed man mused with a smirk. "Shan't we introduce ourselves before we speak of foul news?"

The table humbled in agreement at that, though the question's lingered like a bad smell in the air.

"I am Bryce Caron," the nightingale said. "The rude fellow is my dear brother Ser Rolland Storm."

"A pleasure," Ser Rolland muttered, though he didn't seem truly bothered about his bastardry.

"Our friend here," Lord Bryce motion across the table. "Lord Beric of the House Dondarrion; a friend and neighbour of ours."

"We've met," Lord Beric said with a kind smile. "In the melee, yes? You fought well Ser."

"Not well enough my lord," Edwyn replied. "And I've met you too Ser Thoror – as you met my prince too."

Thoros took a sudden interest in that. "Yes, do believe I still owe the man a drink."

"Now that pleasantries are out of the way though," Lord Bryce's expression turned to stone. "What's this business you mentioned?"

"I'm afraid to say that King Robert rests on his deathbed, my lords…"

The reactions were mixed, but all sad in nature; though the man was a poor king – he was well loved by his Stormlords.

"His Grace has named Lord Eddard as his Lord Protector," Edwyn began his explanation after the lords had calmed down after the news of Robert's impeding demise. "I'm told the king spoke highly of his Stormlands; thus Lord Stark has bid me call on you. He needs good true men at his side."

"While we're glad to hear of His Graces faith," Lord Bryce said, slowly, his doubts clear. "What use does Lord Stark have of us?"

"He is Lord Protector," Beric nodded in agreement easily enough.

"Honourable man," Rolland hummed his thoughts. His eyes didn't stray far from his brother though; waiting to follow the man's lead.

There wasn't a lord in Westeros that didn't seem to know of Ned Stark's reputation.

"Lord Stark fears that-" Edwyn hushed his voice and leant onto the table.

It was an action that prompted the same secrecy from all others at the table with him.

"-that His Grace's hunting accident may not have been wholly an accident…"

"Gods," Lord Bryce swore at that, a frown on his features.

"Murder," Rolland Storm scowled. "You're suggesting someone planned this?"

Edwyn could only give as solemn a nod as he could manage, feigning care for the dying king. In truth, he had none.

"What would you have of us, Ser?" Lord Beric asked, hushing in his whispers.

"Lord Stark wishes your support as Lord Protector, to honour his dying brothers wishes – so that he may uncover the truth of things…"

The men grumbled and thought aloud for a time, in hushed whispers.

"Lord Stark doesn't wish bloodshed," Edwyn assured them. "But-"

"What aren't you telling us?" Lord Bryce scowled, seeing something was amiss.

That wasn't unexpected. Edwyn hadn't been told to lie, after all; but the need for secrecy was paramount.

One couldn't hear much over the crowded inn, with the laugher and idle chatter of loud drunk men and the odd woman on their laps. "Lord Stark fears that the Queen herself may be involved in her husband's death, my lords; and that House Lannister may be seeking to control the throne…"

"The Queen?" Beric whispered faintly in disbelief. "Surely she wouldn't-"

"You haven't been in the capital long Beric my friend," Lord Byrce countered the younger lord with a frown. "I have – and I'll tell you, the Queen has never been a kind woman in a happy marriage. Tis a sad truth but a truth none the less. It… would not be beyond thought…"

"Lord Stark thinks of Robert Baratheon as a brother," Edwyn insisted. "You all know the man; do you think he'd lie?"

"No," Beric said instinctively with a shake of his head.

"And what of Lord Arryn?" Bryce asked, the man prying deeper than expected.

"Lord Stark shares your curiosity, Lord Caron…"

The implications of that were staggering.

"Your thoughts, Beric?"

Beric Dondarrion looked up from the table at that, eyeing Bryce grimly; but determined.

"Lord Stark's a good man, kin to His Grace in all but name," he declared. "Robert is making the man Lord Protector for a reason…"

"Aye," Lord Bryce agreed, grabbing his mug and drinking deep from his ale.

"Stark's an honourable man," Rolland added. "We all know that."

"Prince Willam is with him?" Thoros asked curiously, downing his own fill of ale.

"Aye," Edwyn said firmly. "My cousin is kin to Lord Stark and stands with him; in Robert's memory…"

That was a damn lie. Willam didn't care for Robert Baratheon any more than Edwyn did, but these lords didn't need to know that.

"We're with you Ser," Lord Bryce declared in a hushed manner, to the nodded agreement of all present.

"What of Ser Balon?" Rolland asked then, sipping at his ale.

"A friend?" Edwyn asked, knowing the name only in passing.

"A fellow Stormlander," Ser Rolland replied with a glance to his brother.

"Perhaps," Lord Bryce hummed in thought. "I shall speak with him, if that is accepted; Ser Fisher?"

Edwyn could only nod. "If you trust the man my lord, I leave it to you…"

They had considered Ser Balon, in truth; but the man had barely any knights at his side.

"He's a true knight," Lord Bryce decided. "A valiant and loyal man. I will speak with him…"

Then, together; the Stormlords raised their cups for a toast to their passing liege.

"To his Grace," Lord Bryce Caron declared. "Robert of House Baratheon!"

The Stormlords were with them. Edwyn only hoped the rest of the plan went so smoothly.

---

The King's Gate was one of the seven huge gates that surround the walls of King's Landing. It was by the southern corner of the southwest wall, connecting the western end of the River Row to the tourney grounds outside the city's wall by the Blackwater Rush with a sally port in it and a stable near it.

It was past this looming gateway that Prince Suko passed with some thirty greycloaks an hour before dawn, but they were not alone.

"Prince Suko," Lord Renly was seated atop his charger and looked to be in a hurry, accompanied by a party of fifty retainers and Ser Loras Tyrell.

"Lord Renly," Suko was atop atop his own horse, leaning forward in the saddle as the man rode up.

"You're leaving?" Renly seemed surprised. "Lord Stark seemed to-"

"Lord Stark has his own business," Suko dismissed with a wave. "I'm leaving this shitty city…"

Renly's eyes darted to the cloaked riders, surrounded by grey cloaks; and accompanied by three large direwolves. If he knew – and it was doubtless that he did in fact know – he decided to not raise the point. "Your Lord should leave too," he opted instead, shifting in his saddle. "This city isn't safe anymore."

"Was it ever?" Suko mused with a smirk.

"Hardly," Qrow Ryder scoffed an answer from atop his horse.

"Prince Suko," one of the Greycloaks spoke. "We should hurry…"

"Your man is right," Renly agreed. "You should, while you can – and you should come with us, friends."

"Friends now, are we?" Suko chuckled at that, having barely spoken to the stag lord.

"You should consider yourself so lucky, Ser!" Loras Tyrell snarled from his saddle.

"A man should not assume so easily," Syrio Forel said from his horse beside the cloaked Arya.

"You sound jealous flower boy," Ashlyn smiled mockingly at the knight of flowers.

"Allies then," Renly insisted cautiously. "Friends too; given time surely…"

This man thought himself quite the charmer, apparently.

It was all Suko could do to not roll his eyes.

"We're set for the port…"

"You've gone too far then unless-"

"The King's Port," He corrected.

Renly frowned. "I see, then at least ride with us until the road parts?"

So, the pretty stag lord was heading south-west? Highgarden, not Storm's End.

"As you wish," Suko opted with a wide smirk. It might be useful to ride under the king's banner for a time.

They rode through the King's Gate without much fuss, as what few guards were posted didn't dare stop the king's brother.

It was a truly short ride from the gate to the walled off King's Port, though calling them walls in face of those that circled King's Landing proper would be a vast overstatement. "This is where we part ways then," Lord Renly said, clearly unhappy about it. "Are you certain I cannot convince you to join us?"

"We'll make do Lord Stag," Suko smiled his most charming smile at the man.

Ser Loras was only glaring at him. For what reason, Suko didn't know – or even remotely care.

"Seven protect you then," Lord Renly kicked his horse into a gollop and rode away from the city, towards the Roseroad. Towards the Reach.

In the King's Port it was all too easy to spot the Wanderer – by far the largest vessel present – an eagle circling around the ships sails and masts; watching dutifully as a handful of men in grey cloaks and steel armour matched out onto the pier to greet them. They were clearly expecting trouble.

"Hail," the man in charge called out. "Prince Suko? You're late, we were growing concerned…"

"We encountered some friends," Suko said that last word very loosely. "No trouble though – all accounted for here."

"None yet Prince," the greycloak muttered.

"Snow," He turned to the boy atop his horse with his white wolf standing by like a silent shadow.

"Prince Suko?" Jon raised his head and asked, pushing back his hood.

"See your fellow whelps onto the ship lad," He ordered with a nod.

Arya muttered "not a whelp" as she passed, with Nymeria hot on her heels.

"We're ready to sail at a moment's notice," the greycloak seemed conflicted about something.

"Your name, Greycloak?"

"Genrik," he replied. "If it pleased ya, Prince…"

Suko smirked. "I don't about pleasing; but it'll do – damn sight easier than calling you by the colour of your cloak."

"As you say Prince," Genrik gave a stiff nod to that.

The eagle cawed above them in the sky as Suko stepped onto the deck of the Wanderer.

It was only here that he noticed the forward ballista was loaded, as were the rows of smaller scorpions that lined the top deck – useless against the hull of a ship perhaps, but against men; those bolts would send men flying. The crew were past prepared for battle should be fall upon them.

"Whelps," Suko spoke as he entered the cabin.

"Are we leaving?" Arya asked, with Nymeria at her side. "What about Bran and Father?"

"We're not leaving without them," Jon insisted.

"We might," Suko kept that thought to himself, the worst case wasn't what they wanted to hear.

"This isn't fair," Sansa repeated for the umpteenth time. "I want to go back!"

The girl hadn't stopped complaining the whole damn ride here.

"We'll return when it's safe, girl; not before – understand?"

"It's safe here Sansa," Jon tried to assure the girl.

Sansa Stark meekly kept her head hung, sniffling.

"Prince Suko," it was Genrik again. He looked troubled.

"Out with it then, what's the issue now?"

"We've company arriving – one of the wargs reported a patrol of Goldcloaks on route though the gateway…"

Well, shit, that probably wasn't good. Might prove interesting though…

"Friendly?" He asked the man. It seemed unlikely.

"Perhaps father sent them?" Jon dared to hope for the best.

"I doubt it," Suko shook his head. "My luck isn't that good Snow."

"Prince Willam wouldn't send Goldcloaks," Qrow muttered under his breath.

Outside, it was apparent that it indeed wasn't a friendly casual visit from the city watch.

"At least a hundred," Genrik said as the company of Goldcloaks arrived from the docks – and half marched onto the pier flying the king's colours.

"You have your orders," Suko muttered, eyeing the approaching men like a hawk.

"What's the signal to be, Prince?"

He knew just the thing. It brought back the smile to his lips.

"Oh," Suko was grinning like a madman. "You'll know it when you see it."

"In the name of his grace King Joffrey of the House Baratheon!" The leader of the Goldcloaks shouted up at their ship, with some fifty of his men flanking him on the pier – all looking eager for a fight. "This vessel is hereby seized by the crown, and you are to hand over yourselves to face the King's Justice!"

Suko leaned on the railing of the ship, giving the fools a hearty wave. "Hello there," he shouted down at them. "Could you repeat that, I didn't quite hear you!"

The goldcloak blinked, eyes darting to his fellows before returning upward. "In the name of His Grace, you are to surrender immediately!"

"Oh!" Suko chuckled. "Why didn't you say so!? Lower the ramp! Allow our friends on board!"

The ramp landed with a thud onto the pier, giving them access to the upper deck.

"Well?" He called out to the man in charge. "Come on friend, I'm a busy man you know!"

"No funny business," the one in charge hesitantly walked up the ramp alongside his best men.

"Welcome friends, welcome; to the Wanderer!"

The whole crew were staring at the twenty or so Goldcloaks on the deck with contempt.

"Hand over the Stark's and his Grace will be lenient – you are outnumbered!"

"What's your name, friend?"

The Goldcloak paused before answering.

"Captain Allar Deem," he said proudly, puffing out his chest; trying to seem bigger than he truly was.

"Well then Captain," Suko smiled so very wide. "I have but one question for you."

"Question?" Allar balked, scowling at the stranger. "You will surrender or-"

"Did your mother perchance drop you on your head as a baby?"

Allar's eye twitched at that. "Enough of this! Surrender or-"

"No matter," Suko shrugged; uncaring as he moved.

In a flash, the man's head rolled to the deck – free of its shoulders.

His lifeless body dropped to its knees, headless, as chaos erupted all around.

---

Ned lifted his head from the table to look down into the yard. Below, men in mail and leather and crimson cloaks were making the morning ring to the sound of swords and riding down mock warriors stuffed with straw. Ned watched Sandor Clegane gallop across the hard-packed ground to drive an iron-tipped lance through a dummy's head. Canvas ripped and straw exploded as Lannister guardsmen joked and cursed. Is this brave show for my benefit? he wondered.

If so, Cersei was a greater fool than he'd imagined. "Damn her," he thought, "Why is the woman not fled? I have given her chance after chance…"

The dawn was overcast and grim. Ned broke his fast alone, missing the company of his children – finding he had no real appetite.

It was an hour later when Grand Maester Pycelle came to Eddard in his solar. His shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the great maester's chain around his neck had become too great to bear. "My lord," he said, "King Robert is gone. The gods give him rest."

"No," Ned answered. "He hated rest. The gods give him love and laughter, and the joy of righteous battle."

It was strange how empty he felt. He had been expecting the visit, and yet with those words, something died within him. He would have given all his titles for the freedom to weep; but he was Robert's Hand, and the hour he dreaded had come. "Be so good as to summon the members of the council here to my solar," he told Pycelle.

The Tower of the Hand was as secure as he and Prince Willam could make it; while he could not say the same for the council chambers.

"My lord?" Pycelle blinked. "Surely the affairs of the kingdom will keep till the morrow, when our grief is not so fresh."

Ned was quiet but firm. "I fear we must convene at once."

"As the Hand commands." Pycelle bowed, then gratefully accepted Ned's offer of a chair and a cup of sweet beer.

Ser Barristan Selmy was the first to answer the summons, immaculate in white cloak and enamelled scales.

"My lords," he said, "my place is beside the young king now. Pray give me leave to attend him."

"Your place is here, Ser Barristan," Ned told him.

Littlefinger came next, still garbed in the blue velvets and silver mockingbird cape he had worn the night previous, his boots dusty from riding. "My lords," he said, smiling at nothing in particular before he turned to Ned. "That little task you set me is accomplished, Lord Eddard."

Varys entered in a wash of lavender, pink from his bath, his plump face scrubbed and freshly powdered, his soft slippers all but soundless. "The little birds sing a grievous song today," he said as he seated himself. "The realm weeps. Shall we begin?"

"When Lord Renly arrives," Ned said.

Varys gave him a sorrowful look. "I fear Lord Renly has left the city."

"Left the city?" Ned had counted on Renly's support, but now it seemed lost.

"He took his leave through a postern gate an hour before dawn, accompanied by Ser Loras Tyrell and some fifty retainers," Varys told them. "When last seen, they were galloping south in some haste, no doubt bound for Storm's End or Highgarden. Prince Willam's men were also sighted…"

Along with his children, but if Varys knew that; he'd decided not to say – that Ned found strange of the spider.

Ned did not like the smell of it, but there was nothing to be done. He drew out Robert's last letter. "The king commanded me to record his final words. Lord Renly and Grand Maester Pycelle stood witness as Robert sealed the letter, to be opened by the council after his death. Ser Barristan, if you would be so kind?"

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard examined the paper. "King Robert's seal, and unbroken." He opened the letter and read. "Lord Eddard Stark is herein named Protector of the Realm, to rule as regent until the heir comes of age."

And as it happens, he is of age, Ned reflected, but he did not give voice to the thought.

He trusted neither Pycelle nor Varys, and Ser Barristan was honor-bound to protect and defend the boy he thought his new king. The old knight would not abandon Joffrey easily. The need for deceit was a bitter taste in his mouth, but Ned knew he must tread softly here, must keep his counsel and play the game until he was firmly established as regent. There would be time enough to deal with the succession when Lord Stannis had returned to King's Landing with all his power.

"I would ask this council to confirm me as Lord Protector, as Robert wished," Ned said, watching their faces, wondering what thoughts hid behind Pycelle's half-closed eyes, Littlefinger's lazy half-smile, and the nervous flutter of Varys's fingers. The only one at ease seemed to be Barristan.

The door opened. Fat Tom stepped into the solar. "Pardon, my lords, the king's steward insists…"

The royal steward entered and bowed. "Esteemed lords, the king demands the immediate presence of his small council in the throne room."

Ned had expected Cersei to strike quickly; the summons came as no surprise.

"The king is dead," he said, "but we shall go with you, nonetheless. Tom, call on Prince Willam and the others, if you would."

A triple column of men-at-arms in chainmail and steel were waiting outside the tower, a hundred strong. Grey cloaks snapped in the wind as the guardsmen marched them across the yard. There was no Lannister crimson to be seen, but Ned was reassured by the number of gold cloaks visible on the ramparts and at the gates.

Janos Slynt met them at the door to the throne room, armoured in ornate black-and-gold plate, with a high-crested helm under one arm. The Commander bowed stiffly. His men pushed open the great oaken doors, twenty feet tall and banded with bronze. Willam was at Edwyn Fisher's side, speaking quietly in their Old Tongue.

All that Ned could make out of their conversation was the word "Door" and little else. They were up to something.

"Ned," Willam called on him. "A word, before we enter…"

He rushed Ned over away from Slynt's hearing towards man with red-gold hair dressed in a black satin cloak dusted with stars, alongside another older lordling in a cloak of yellow-and-gold with a hundred nightingales taking flight. Another had a brooch which clasped his cloak with ivory and onyx swans.

Stormlords each of them, Ned knew; but why were they here of all places?

"Lord Stark," Ser Balon Swann had a nod as he approached.

"Lord Protector," Beric Dondarrion bowed his head, the look on his face firm as stone.

"Stark," Bryce Caron was stiffer in his bow. The man looked on edge, more of a hardened warrior than young Beric and Swann.

"My Lords?" Ned eyed the men. Beric was handsome and young. His breastplate was of dull black steel that displayed a forked purple lightning bolt, and he carried a black shield slashed by lightning strapped to his back while Lord Caron was older, rugged and experienced; though younger than Ned by many years.

Ser Swann looked every part the knight; big across the chest, with arms thick with muscle. The silver on his sword showed off his house's wealth.

"You're here?" Ned asked them all quickly, his voice hushed as realization hit. "Prince Willam sent for you…"

They had brought some twenty knights, it seemed; including a young squire of ten-and-two. Too young for this business, Ned thought.

"Prince Willam called on us," Beric explained with some warmth. "He explained, albeit briefly; but we stand with you Lord Stark."

"Aye," Lord Bryce agreed sternly with a nod of his head. The man was armoured and armed for a war, with his retainers acting as shadows.

"Their Lordships are eager to serve the Lord Protector," Willam remarked absently as Greycloaks began pouring into the hall.

Lord Beric gave a firm nod, a hand wrapped around his sword; just as Lord Bryce echoed the gesture.

Dondarrion's squire looked afraid, a young boy with pale blond hair and dark blue eyes that appeared almost purple.

"We're with you Lord Stark," Edric Dayne muttered bravely though. Ned could see, briefly, an old ghost in the boy.

"We'll get that drink I owe ye after this, Prince," Thoros of Myr walked up to them then, smiling wide and smelling of wine.

"See?" Willam managed a brief smiled that died in its infancy. "The boy and the drunk are with us; what could do wrong?"

Dayne smiled nervously then, shuffling on his feet as Thoros chuckled and Lord Beric ruffled the lad's hair.

"Where is Lord Renly?" The question hung in the air for a moment before Ned cut straight through it.

"Gone," he confirmed with unease. "Ridden away in the night with some fifty men, apparently…"

That was not part of the plan. Ned had refused the man's plan, true, but they'd still expected Lord Renly's support.

Edwyn Fisher walked off and stood vigil besides some fifty Greycloaks, seeming intent on remaining by the great doors.

"We're with you," Willam said quietly then, "but should the worst happen; follow my lead – no questions Ned."

They had a hundred and seventy in the Red Keep, counting the Stormland Knight's among their number. It was no meek number of swords, enough to give Cersei pause even if they didn't have the Goldcloaks at side. They weren't all here though, Ned noticed; their numbers seemed more akin to a hundred at most…

The royal steward led them in then. "All hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," he sang out. The boy king seemed incredibly pleased atop his throne.

It was a long walk to the far end of the hall, where Joffrey waited atop the Iron Throne. Ned Stark slowly walked toward the boy who called himself king. The others followed. The first time he had come this way, he had been on horseback, sword in hand, and the Targaryen dragons had watched from the walls as he forced Jaime Lannister down from the throne. He wondered if Joffrey would step down quite so easily; but somehow doubted it.

Six knights of the Kingsguard – all but Ser Barristan – were arrayed in a crescent around the base of the throne. They were in full armour, enamelled steel from helm to heel, long pale cloaks over their shoulders, shining white shields strapped to their left arms. Cersei Lannister and her two younger children stood behind Ser Boros and Ser Meryn. The queen wore a gown of sea-green silk, trimmed with Myrish lace as pale as foam. On her finger was a golden ring, with a matching tiara on her head.

Above them, Prince Joffrey sat amidst the barbs and spikes in a cloth-of-gold doublet and a red satin cape. Sandor Clegane was stationed at the foot of the throne's steep narrow stair; as if the man were Kingsguard. He wore mail and soot-grey plate and his snarling dog's-head helm.

Behind the throne, twenty Lannister guardsmen waited with longswords hanging from their belts. Crimson cloaks draped their shoulders and steel lions crested their helms. But Littlefinger had kept his promise; all along the walls, in front of Robert's tapestries with their scenes of hunt and battle, the gold-cloaked ranks of the City Watch stood stiffly to attention, each man's hand clasped around the haft of an eight-foot-long spear tipped in black iron. They outnumbered the Lannisters five to one.

Willam's men had effortlessly kept a tight formation around them, with shields and swords; while some held loaded crossbows, some holding back by the doorway.

The Greycloaks were very much in their element, Ned thought, as they held formation – keeping the crossbows at the centre; and shields at the sides – as if they expected an attack; or were at least prepared for the eventuality. This, plus the Goldcloaks and the Stormlander Knights, put Ned at ease. Cersei would be a fool to resist them.

Joffrey stood. His red satin cape was patterned in gold thread; fifty roaring lions to one side, fifty prancing stags to the other. "I command the council to make all the necessary arrangements for my coronation," the boy proclaimed. "I wish to be crowned within the fortnight. Today I shall accept oaths of fealty."

Ned produced Robert's letter. "Lord Varys, be so kind as to show this to my lady of Lannister."

The eunuch carried the letter to Cersei. The queen glanced at the words. "Protector of the Realm," she read. "Is this meant to be your shield, my lord? A piece of paper?" She ripped the letter in half, ripped the halves in quarters, and let the pieces flutter to the floor.

"Those were the king's words," Ser Barristan said, shocked.

Ser Balon looked equally distraught for the Queen's actions, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

Willam's eyes darted to Aedan in a heartbeat. He didn't need words. Every man and woman in grey shifted uneasily.

Lord Beric had a frown etched onto his features as he motioned for his squire to stand at his back, the boy dutifully moving into position without issue.

"We have a new king now," Cersei Lannister replied. "Lord Eddard, when last we spoke, you gave me some counsel. Allow me to return the courtesy. Bend the knee, my lord. Bend the knee and swear fealty to my son, and we shall allow you to step down as Hand and live out your days in the grey waste you call home."

"Would that I could," Ned said grimly, a frown on his features. If she was so determined to force the issue here and now, then so be it, she left him no choice. "Your son has no claim to the throne he sits. Lord Stannis Baratheon is King Robert's true heir."

"The product of incest," Prince Willam added; loud and clear for the court to hear. "Spawn of Jaime Lannister!"

Ser Jaime stood growling from his vigil under the shadow of the throne, ready to roar like a damn lion; claws and all.

"Liar!" Joffrey screamed then, his face reddening as he stood from the Iron Throne and screamed, "LIAR!"

"Mother, what does he mean?" Princess Myrcella asked the queen plaintively, with a look of confusion on her face.

"What is the meaning of this!?" Lord Byrce demanded; his eyes locked on the boy king – furious as any storm. "Is this true!?"

"I'm afraid so My Lord," Ned said with a frown as the court burst into whispers; even among those in Lannister grab.

"You condemn yourself with these disgusting lies, Lord Stark," said Cersei Lannister. "Ser Barristan, seize this traitor!"

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard hesitated. In the blink of an eye every Greycloak had bare steel in their plated fists and raised shields.

"And now the treason moves from words to deeds," Cersei said. "Do you think Ser Barristan stands alone, my lord?" With an ominous rasp of metal on metal, the Hound drew his longsword. The knights of the Kingsguard and twenty Lannister guardsmen in crimson cloaks moved to support him.

"Shields!" Aedan shouted in the Old Tongue, as the Greycloaks locked into a square formation in the centre of the hall; crossbows aimed at the throne.

"Kill him!" the boy king screamed down from the Iron Throne, his fancy cloak ripping on the barbs of the throne. "Kill all of them, I command it!"

"You leave me no choice," Ned told Cersei Lannister with a scowl. He called out to Janos Slynt who stood with his men off to the side of the hall. "Commander, take the queen and her children into custody. Do them no harm, but escort them back to the royal apartments and keep them there, under guard."

"Men of the Watch!" Janos Slynt shouted, donning his helm. At least a hundred gold cloaks levelled their spears and closed in to the sides.

"I want no bloodshed," Ned told the queen. "Tell your men to lay down their swords, and no one need—"

With a single sharp thrust, the nearest gold cloak drove his spear into Tomard's back. Fat Tom's blade dropped from nerveless fingers as the wet red point burst out through his ribs, piercing leather and mail. He was dead before his sword hit the floor. The hall erupted into a chaos of steel and screams.

In a flash Thoros of Myr lit his sword alight and was holding off two goldcloak spearmen, catching one of their wooden spears aflame.

"BRACE!" Willam barked, drawing Frostbite from its sheath; as grey and purple and yellow fought gold and red clashing from the throne.

A godcloak had been pierced by Thoros, having dropped his burning spear in a panic. Lord Bryce was locked in battle against Ser Meryn Trant and Boros Blount.

Ned's shout came far too late, even as Willam's men seemed to not need orders – Janos Slynt himself slashed open Varly's throat. Cayn whirled, steel flashing, drove back the nearest spearman with a flurry of blows; and for an instant it looked as though he might cut his way free. Then the Hound was on him. Sandor Clegane's first cut took off Cayn's sword hand at the wrist; his second drove him to his knees and opened him from shoulder to breastbone.

Lord Beric parried a spear; cutting it in half and killing with a follow-up while protecting is squire from a bolt with his shield.

Balon Swann was causing havoc with his Morningstar, swinging the weapon with surprising grace and skill – taking many by surprise.

Ser Boros fell to a slash from Lord Bryce, sending the whitecloak wailing to the floor as he clutched at his severed hand and cried out for help while his brother in white duelled on against the Stormlord. Bryce shouted "Nightsong!" as he parried and fought back Meryn Trant with Rolland Storm's help.

Ned could do nothing then as he saw Sandor Clegane step forward and cleave the Lord of Nightfall near in half with a swing of his sword.

Crossbow bolts from the Greycloaks sunk into the flesh of multiple Goldcloaks then, a few hitting Clegane square in the chest as Rolland Storm dragged away his dying brother with mutters of "I've got you" and prayers to gods that wouldn't hear him even as Ser Balon rushed over and protected the man as he dragged his brother.

Ser Rolland only got a short distance before Lord Bryce was dead, picking up his fallen brother's sword and using it alongside his own to cut down Lannisters.

Wraith and Flash made short work of those few allowed past the Greycloaks shieldwall; some too afraid to approach the wolves at all in the chaos of battle.

At the rear of the hall fighting had erupted too, as Willam's men held the centre; albeit barely – the hall was filled with blood and screams.

"Argghh!" Ned snarled as something jumped up and bit him; a bolt in his upper thigh.

"There's too many!" Lord Beric called out, slashing his sword down in an arch of red rain.

"Bastards!" Rolland Storm hadn't stopped roaring, cutting down man after man in his fury even with a bolt in his shoulder.

"Move it, Storm!" Ser Balon had to grab the Bastard of Nightsong by his collar to cease his blind blood-crazed quest for vengeance.

"We need to get out!" Jory Cassel screamed, parrying a blow and cutting down a goldcloak with his backslash.

"Retreat!" Willam commanded then, slicing at one Lannister guard with his icy blade; cutting through the man's chainmail like it were a hot knife through a lump of butter, much to the man's surprise and horror. "To the doors lads – then to the fucking yard! MOVE!"

Ned could see Jaime Lannister cutting down man after man as a shout of "To me!" rang out from the doors to the great all. Edwyn Fisher had held the flank it seemed, with some fifty men outside the hall; he'd managed to prevent the doors from closing on them. "Get through the damn door! Protect the Prince!"

Only one or two of the Stormlander Knights stood with them still, their swords and pretty silks wet and slick with blood.

"Ned!" Willam had grabbed the man by his collar as he limped out. "We're getting out; this is lost – do you hear me!?"

Men were dying left and right, one or two by Ned's own hand from instinct alone during their retreat.

"Stark!" Jaime Lannister was calling out from inside the hall; challenging them, demanding they come fight the Kingslayer.

"Are you alright Lord Stark?" Jory was at his side, with a large gash across his cheek – but the man seems to care only for his wounded lord.

"How did-" Ned paused to catch his breath once they'd gotten out of the hall. His head spinning, the pain in his leg sharp as glass.

"Lad," Lord Beric was knelt, checking over his squire. "Are you hurt!?"

"I'm fine," Edric Dayne was shaking, but unharmed; his eyes wide with fright.

It was doubtless the first real sight of battle and death the young Dayne lord had ever witnessed.

"We can't hold here much longer!" Ser Balon barked, his Morningstar dripping with red and gore.

"Edwyn!" Willam was ignoring them all entirely. "Aedan, we move; there's no damn time!"

The door to the great hall had been all but sealed by a row of Stark shields and spears as Lannister and Goldcloak men threw themselves at it with spears and swords and whatever they could find. Ned shook the confusion and shock out of his bones then and there, eyes darting around – how had this happened!?

Some men had been unfortunate enough to be stuck on the opposite side of the shield wall. They hadn't lasted long.

"Fuck you!" The Bastard of Nightsong had driven a spear clear through the heart one of man at the doorway as the men barely held.

"Harrold," Willam clasped one man on the shoulder. "I'm sorry but-"

"I have the door my Prince," the man replied firmly. His sword was bloody, and his cloak was strained red.

"Good man," is all Willam said as he turned away; leaving the shield wall of men behind to hold the door to the great hall.

They ran through the halls then, with barely half their original numbers left alive with them. Ned ignored the pain as he joined them.

Ahead was the sound of clashing steel and shouting dying men, as they turned a corner – the sight was red against grey; slashing and cutting as Willam dived forward without a word, his men following into line. Ned followed suit, cutting one spear shaft clean in half before opening the neck of some Lannister man-at-arms.

Rolland Storm was first among the clashing and made quick work of several foes, the bastard's blood hot and angry; screaming as he cut lions down.

Ser Balon finished off his foe, impaled on a longsword; be swung the Morningstar to wholly crush the redcloaks skull in a splatter of red mist.

Ned Stark looked around then at all the death. Edric Dayne's sword was bloodied, he saw; the boy had taken a life it seemed from his look.

Willam was- where was he? Ned glanced around quickly, to find the man knelt on the floor in a pummel of blood with a direwolf at his side.

"Ivar," He was calling the man. One of his men, Ned knew; having seen the young man before.

"I- I'm sorry, Prince…"

"Hush," Willam was holding the man up, laying with a spear in his stomach.

"The court… courtyard is… too many…"

"It's alright," he was smiling at the man, but Ned saw an angry thing; full of fury.

Wraith was at his side, the wolf's eyes burning brightly. His fur was matted with blood.

"Will," Aedan was catching his breath, the man no less bloodied than his own wolf; with grey fur coated crimson.

Rolland Storm was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, muttering curses under his breath.

"We need to move cousin," Edwyn added sadly. "We cannot-"

"I KNOW!" Willam yelled, more akin to an angry wolf than a man.

Ivar had grown cold, most of his blood pooled on the floor alongside half his squad of men.

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't," Willam told the man. "You did well, now you rest; yes?"

Ivar managed a smile. "I'm glad… glad I…"

"He's gone Will," Aedan said. "We have to move, or we'll join him."

"FUCK!" The Prince screamed for a moment.

Flash whined at his master's side.

They didn't have time for this.

"Will-"

"I know!" He barked again. "Damn it, I know – but the courtyards lost…"

"The Tower," Aedan said, grasping his prince on the shoulder. "We planned for this – remember?"

"Yes," Willam growled in reply. The plan. Remember the stupid fucking plan…

They'd planned for this? How!?

"What do you mean," Ned demanded of them.

"Later," Willam snapped at the man. The sound of fighting had faded to nothing in the distance.

More dead men lost for his foolery, Ned thought grimly. They'd abandoned those brave men to die.

They'd ran for the Tower of the Hand like their lives depended on it – because it did – locking doors and throwing countless furniture and anything else down stairwells to buy them time. It didn't take long for the Lannister's to find them, but they were surrounded and royally fucked.

There was only one stairwell leading to the upper bedchambers. It was here they held; rats trapped in a cage.

"How many," Willam spoke quietly once they had a moment to breathe.

"Forty-seven," Aedan answered. "Everyone else is captured or dead…"

"Fuck me," Edwyn cursed, sitting on one of the few chairs they hadn't tossed down the narrow stairwell leading to this floor of the tower.

"I'll kill them all," Ser Rolland was muttering, more to himself than anyone. He held onto his brother's sword with white knuckles.

"Only two of my men are left," Lord Beric was frowning, blood on his face; a shallow cut on his forearm.

"I-" Edric Dayne muttered. "I got one…"

Lord Beric looked sadly down at his squire. "You did well lad…"

Wraith was pacing back and forth, growling impatiently; a mirror of his master's frustrations.

Most had died in the hall. If it weren't for the Greycloaks formation holding, or Edwyn's force holding the door – they'd have all surely been killed or captured by now. Instead, they were hauled up in a tower with no way out and Lannisters gnawing at their desperate attempts at buying time.

"How did you know?" Ned demanded then, staring at Prince Willam.

The man seemed a whole different person than who he'd come to know. His signature smile was gone, his silver-and-black plate drenched in blood; with an emotionless hollow glare on his face that spoke of a man holding back rage. His men had been prepared for this, somehow, they'd had plans in place…

In his hand was a pale blue blade that looked inhumanly sharp, more crystal than steel. Ned had seen it cut down men; but it was spotless now.

How was it spotless? He must've cleaned it off somewhere, Ned assumed; shaking away the thought.

"I didn't know," Willam denied with a frown. "I feared – but I didn't know…"

"We'd planned for the worst," Aedan added with a sigh.

"So, you didn't know about the Goldcloaks?"

"If you fucking knew Stark," Rolland darted his eyes up at that.

"Calm yourself Storm," Ser Balon scolded with a frown on his thin lips.

"You'd think I'd have walked my fucking men into that if I'd known?"

No, he wouldn't have – Ned didn't doubt it. The look on his face spoke volumes.

"Trust sidesteps all precautions." Willam was stroking Wraith's matted fur as he growled. "I trust no one, not fully; so I planned for the worst…"

Years of betrayal and lies had taught him that. Baelish was a man he hadn't trusted, true, but Ned vouched for the man's love of his wife and family – so Willam had trusted Ned; to an extent – while acting in a way that allowed for their escape… however brief that escape may last…

He'd had Edwyn call on the Stormlanders, betting on their love for Robert and sense of duty. That had paid off… even if Lord Caron had fallen…

"We're alive," Thoros said with a sigh, gripping his irreparably damaged blade. "That's what matters, no?"

"Speak for yourselves!" Ser Rolland snapped at them, making Wraith growl at the man; but he didn't balk. "My brother is fucking dead!"

Willam ignored him, and that alone seemed to calm Wraith as the bastard settled back to his brooding and curses.

"Would you have listened if I'd told you my doubts," he looked at the Lord of Winterfell. "Ned?"

That was- damn it, Ned knew that he wouldn't have. Baelish was Cat's friend for god's sake.

"No, I wouldn't-" Ned stumbled then, as Edwyn moved to stop the man falling. "I- Arghh!"

"You're hit," Willam pointed out what now seemed too obvious. In the chaos, he hadn't noticed.

Ned had ignored it as best he could, in the battle he'd focused on moving and staying alive.

The bolt was still in his leg, bleeding profusely at the upper left thigh.

"It's nothing," Ned assured them. "It just needs dressing; it'll be fine."

He'd seen men survive worse things than a crossbow bolt to the leg. Ned cared more for the others than himself…

"Just yank it out for god's sake," Rolland muttered, having apparently done so to the bolt that struck his shoulder earlier.

"Aedan," Willam said with a sigh. "See to his leg, stop the damn bleeding – we haven't come this far for him to die now."

"Aye," Aedan gave Ned a shoulder to lean on as he led the man away somewhere to see about removing the bolt.

There was silence then, aside from the distance noises of Lannister soldiers removing all the damn furniture from the stairwell. What men they had left were standing ready with spears and shields; prepared to use the advantage the stair gave them. They held the high ground, so to speak. Fuck lot of good it would do them in the long run.

"So," Edwyn asked to break the relative silence. "What's the plan now?"

Plan? The damn 'plan' had been keeping his men in a formation that would allow them an escape from any trap in the great hall, then Ivar's group were to secure the courtyard – but that had gone to shit and now the man was dead. "I don't know," Willam admitted. "We're stuck. They'll rush us or starve us out, either way…"

"We fight," Ser Rolland Storm said, more demand that suggestion. "And we take every last one of the fuckers down with us…"

They could funnel Lannisters in the stairwell to some success, it was the only way up; but that wouldn't hold forever. It would merely cost the enemy lives.

---

My Note(s): I was going to finish this in one chapter, but ended up going "fuck it, I'm evil, have a cliff-hanger" and here we are :) you're welcome. I'm somewhat expecting some "omg how could Willam walk into a trap, reeeeee" but here you've Willam making plans behind Ned's back for a "worst case" scenario; while Ned vouches for Baelish, he doesn't like the man, so Will goes in prepared for the eventuality (however unlikely he considers it) that betrayal is always a potential. He's a long history of paranoid behaviour, so it's very in-character for him. It simply wasn't realistic for him to magically know what Baelish was planning; even if he didn't like the guy.

Beric/Bryce/Balon (triple B's, just realising that) join Ned/Will in this; since there's no Mountain raiding the riverlands, Beric isn't sent there by Ned – so he's in the capital still – and I decided that Bryce would've also stayed afterwards for a time. In the books, it's likely Bryce either left after the tourney or went with Renly. Balon stayed in the capital in canon too, and Baelish even originally names him as a potential ally for Ned. Here though, Edwyn recruits them under Will's little scheme to gather allies.

Will's backup plan works, kinda; allowing Ned and himself to escape the great hall but ultimately falls apart and now they're stuck in the Tower of the Hand with no way out. Arya, Sansa and Jon are out of the keep however with Suko; who last we heard from cut the head off a Goldcloak captain and were in hot water there.

I'm sure there will be people arguing the opposite outcome(s) from all this, but if you try to make everyone happy then you end up creating trash that makes nobody happy :) ultimately the Goldcloaks outnumber Ned's allies even with Willam's assistance/efforts to bolster their numbers. This is how it plays out in My story :P like it or not, hindsight is a bitch; while we've had and will continue to have many divergences from canon, the Goldcloak betrayal wasn't something Ned could hope to avoid.

In order for Ned to not walk into that trap he'd need to be extremely OOC. The only realistic tweaks are who walks in with him; and if it's enough or not. It's also arguable that someone else could bribe/get the Goldcloaks on Ned's side… but no such person other than Baelish exists here. Will certainly doesn't have that kinda sway in the city. Ned could also not warn Cersei, he could have a better grasp on Sansa, he could do a hundred things that would be highly out of character for him.

Ultimately, this is all Ned's damn fault :( for not involving Will sooner / warning Cersei / refusing Renly / Sansa warning Cersei. All mistakes, but all very Ned.

Bran Stark is meanwhile still MIA but inquisitive minds should be able to add 1+1 to figure out where he is. We'll find out next chapter…

Please consider leaving reviews (seem to be getting fewer of them lately) as intelligent comments genuinely encourage me to write :)

George Cristian810: I've said it multiple times before, but this isn't a fix-it; there's a thousand of those elsewhere – some not terrible :P but ultimately, I'd have to change Ned's whole character to justify him not acting like Ned Stark. And stop Robert from dying? That's a whole other realm of fix-it. Sunset isn't a fix-it story.

The Great Gamer: I'm glad you're enjoying it :) Arya is like 9 years old so she can be forgiven for acting the way she does (they age her up in the HBO show and it's very creepy to me as a book reader) and yeah, Ned makes a lotta mistakes born of his honor and general ineptitude. It's got a lot of people killed this chapter. It'll probably kill more people in the next chapter too; but this divergence from canon events (thanks to Will's presence) will have very far-reaching consequences.