Eddard

A waste, thought Eddard Stark, looking the Grand Maester, Pycelle, up and down, thinking of their meeting and its futility. He had come here to speak with the wizen ancient, to talk of Jon Arryn and his final days, yet the old man had nothing to off that he did not already know, or could not have found elsewhere. If Lord Eddard had written down all that he thought the old man would say before they met, the Grand Maester may as well have just read it out back to him verbatim.

Nothing said offered Ned any illumination, even as he continued to prompt the old man for something, "Was there anything strange in his final moment?" He asked it, gesturing with his goblet full of sweetened iced milk.

Pycelle wrinkled his brow. "In the last stage of his fever, the Hand called out the name Robert several times, but whether he was asking for his son or for the king I could not say. Lady Lysa would not permit the boy to enter the sickroom, for fear that he too might be taken ill. The king did come, and he sat beside the bed for hours, talking and joking of times long past in hopes of raising Lord Jon's spirits. His love was fierce to see."

"Was there nothing else? No final words?"

"When I saw that all hope had fled, I gave the Hand the milk of the poppy, so he should not suffer. Just before he closed his eyes for the last time, he whispered something to the king and his lady wife, a blessing for his son. The seed is strong, he said. At the end, his speech was too slurred to comprehend. Death did not come until the next morning, but Lord Jon was at peace after that. He never spoke again."

Ned took another swallow of milk, trying not to gag on the sweetness of it. "Did it seem to you that there was anything unnatural about Lord Arryn's death?"

Pycelle almost gagged on the words, and for a moment Ned worried the strain of it might strike down the man in his frailty, "Unnatural, my lord?" He dabbed a napkins a the corner of his mouth, "No, I could not say. Certainly, we are all saddened. Yet, death is the most natural and certain of all things, Lord Eddard. We should be glad that Lord Arryn is at peace now, his burdens lifted at long last."

"So you are quite certain that Jon Arryn died of a sudden illness?"

"I am," Pycelle gravely vowed, a hand held up in honesty. "If not illness, my good lord, what else could it be?"

"Poison?" offered Ned.

Like a lizard, the old man's eyes slowly flickered opened, then he blinked at Ned, now like a mole, and with a sloth's sloth his spotted hand dropped to the table. "A disturbing thought. We are not the Free Cities, where such things are common. It is wrote in the Seven Pointed Star men carry murder in their hearts, yet the poisoner is beneath such damnation."

Lord Eddard and the ancient servant to four Kings stared quietly at one another.

"What you suggest is possible, my lord, yet not likely. Every maester knows the common poisons, and Lord Arryn displayed none of the signs. And the Hand was loved by all. What sort of monster in man's flesh would dare to murder such a noble lord?"

"Some men name poison a woman's weapon."

Pycelle stroked his beard thoughtfully, a habit had noticed in the man throughout their meetings of the Small Council. "Yes, my lord. Women, cravens... and eunuchs. The Lord Varys was born a slave in Lys, did you know? Put not your trust in spiders, my lord."

Ned did not need to be told such. The eunuch made the flesh upon his arm crawl whenever he spoke, and thought he could almost see his arms probing and touching at the strings of his webs of spies and schemes with every gesture.

"I will remember that, Maester. And I thank you for your help. Now, we have a Council meeting to attend." He stood.

Grand Maester Pycelle pushed himself up from his chair slowly and followed Ned to the door. "I hope I have helped in some small way to put your mind at ease. If there is any other service I might perform, you need only ask."

Ned paused, the thought coming to him only distantly, "The book," he said, stopping so suddenly that Pycelle almost bounced off of him, "that you gave Lord Arryn before his illness – I should like to see it."

Slowly, the Grand Maester nodded, "I shall have my servant deliver to your lordship's chamber my tonight."

And together they departed for the Small Council chamber.

"It is the Prince, my lords!" Accused Janos Slynt, the commander of the city watch as he made his complaint to the King's council. "He has stirred up the city into chaos between him and the Hand's Tourney the mob has been whipped up to a frenzy. Goldcloaks are attacked in the street, even my sons, wounded in the line of duty to keep the King's Peace for your lordship's tourney…"

"It is the King's Tourney," Ned interrupted with the correction almost a sigh, but Slynt would not be put off.

"Call it what you would, my lord. Knights have been arriving from all over the realm, and for every knight we get two freeriders, three craftsmen, six men-at-arms, a dozen merchants, two dozen whores, and more thieves than I dare guess. This cursed heat had half the city in a fever to start, and now with all these visitors the watch is struggling. But this Prince – this Rickard – he's a rogue and pounding for a gutter war in the streets. We have drownings by the dozen, tavern riots each night, knife fights beyond counts, and rapes, fires, robberies threatening every corner of the city as soon as the ale houses throw their doors open. The night before a woman's head was found in the Great Sept, floating in the rainbow pool. No one seems to know how it got there or who it belongs to but mark me my lords this bastard Prince is behind it."

"Have a care, ser!" Ned interrupted, his finger raised in warning. "That is the King's own blood you speak of."

"And my nephew," Lord Renly said, suddenly on his feet, and looking disgusted upon Janos Slynt. "If you cannot keep the king's peace, Janos, perhaps the City Watch should be commanded by someone who can."

Littlefinger was sniggering from the other end of the table, "Perhaps if Prince Rickard is the one causing all the trouble, he is the one to keep order in the city?" He suggested, an ink pen turning in his fingers.

The already frog-like face of Janos Slynt puffed and swelled up even further like the angriest of toads, "I tell you, my lords, not even the Conqueror himself could keep the city in order. And place the prince in my stead and the Blackwater will be choked red with blood and bodies. Give me more men, and I will stamp out this Prince's thuggery like he were a cockroach!"

Ned shook his head frowning. This did not make sense to him. Robb told him the like of what Prince Rickard Baratheon did in his run-down tavern, and it did not match what he was being told by Slynt – his son would not lie to him, but perhaps Lord Eddard might need to take his own measure of the Prince? Either way, the howling of Janos Slynt would do no good, whether there was an ounce of truth to his claims or not.

"If it's men you need, how many?"

Already, Ned did not like the smile that crept along Slynt's face, "As many as can be gotten, my lord."

"Hire fifty new men," Ned told him. "Lord Baelish will provide the coin."

"I will?" Littlefinger said, the pen tumbling from his fingers in surprise.

"Yes, you will." Ned commanded, "You found forty thousand golden dragons for a champion's purse, you can then afford the money to keep the king's peace." Ned turned back to Janos Slynt. "I will also give you twenty good swords from my own household guard, to serve with the Watch until the crowds have left."

"All thanks, Lord Hand," Slynt said, bowing, beaming and bowing again. "I promise you, they shall be put to good use. Prince Rickard will be brought swiftly to heel, I-"

"You will not," Ned interrupted a final time, holding up a finger to warn the man, "do anything to aggravate or antagonize the situation in the city, least of all Prince Rickard. I will speak to him before this day is out and see a resolution is made."

Slynt frowned, but Lord Eddard had granted him what he had asked for, and could not complain justly any further. He turned away in anger, but said nothing else.

Varys became the first to speak after the lord commander was gone.

"How dreadful these tidings are, my lords. And I do so fear for our Prince Rickard. Might there not be some remedy to reconcile him with the Red Keep?" Though he looked almost moved to tears, Ned did not believe in the showy way that Varys plucked at his eye with the sleeve of his silk robe.

Grand Maester Pycelle made a throaty noise that sound as though he might be moving the whole room closer to the grave than himself. "Oh, Prince Rickard has always had a fierce and rebellious spirit. Not even his father, His Grace, could tame him in his youth." The prince is in his youth, Ned thought, "Perhaps, if he were returned to Lord Tywin's guardianship, then he might remind him of a Prince's proper manners."

The Prince's Uncle Renly snorted in derision, "Not likely, not after he made a pauper of Rickard. I say we order Lord Tywin return Rickard his allowance and stop treating him like another one of his mad dogs. When I took Rickard to The Reach and Stormlands he never gave me any trouble. If we start treating him like a prince again, he'll come back to the fold. What say you, Baelish? Treat the Prince how he should be for a change?"

The tone of accusation was in Renly's voice toward Littlefinger, but the Master-of-Coin was merely scrawling lazily with his pen on the sheet of paper in front of him.

"Why, Lord Renly," he said, in a voice of good humour, "I'll have you know that the Prince and I are perfect friends nowadays. My council is: let us bring down Slynt for the Prince, he'll be grateful to us, and I'll wager he can do a better job."

Frustrated with the circle this conversation was taking, Ned declared, "I said I would speak to the Prince, and we shall have our resolution then. Nevertheless," he contemplated the Tourney that irritated him with dubbing of the 'Hand's Tourney', as though he had asked for the 'honour', "the sooner we are done with this folly, the better."

"The realm prospers from such events, my lord," Grand Maester Pycelle advised. "They bring the great the chance of glory, and the lowly a respite from their woes."

"And put coins in many a pocket," Littlefinger added, his fingers back to toying with his pen. "Every inn in the city is full, and the whores are walking bowlegged and jingling with each step."

Lord Renly laughed, now in good humour. "We're fortunate my brother Stannis is not with us. Remember the time he proposed to outlaw brothels? The king asked him if perhaps he'd like to outlaw eating, shitting, and breathing while he was at it. If truth be told, I ofttimes wonder how Stannis ever got that ugly daughter of his. He goes to his marriage bed like a man marching to a battlefield, with a grim look in his eyes and a determination to do his duty."

Ned had not joined the laughter. "I wonder about your brother Stannis as well. I wonder when he intends to end his visit to Dragonstone and resume his seat on this council."

"No doubt as soon as we've scourged all those whores into the sea," Littlefinger replied, provoking more laughter.

"My lords," said Varys when the laughter died away, "We do have one more petitioner for this day."

He waved to the herald on the door, who opened it and announced: "Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne, emissary for Prince Doran! And her Uncle, Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne!"

The final words of the herald shook the all the councillors as though the earth itself began to quake. Lord Renly gave a shuddered whisper of 'the Red Viper!', and the Grand Maester began to jingle, as he clutched his Maester's chain to his heart, as Lord Eddard had sometimes seen Catelyn do so with prayer beads of the Seven. Eddard Stark could well recall why they were trembling: he recalled the Prince as a youth, at the tourney of Harrenhall, and was already called the Red Viper by then, and half a legend already. On the field, he ruled as Prince among the Dornishmen, unhorsing dozens, even his uncle of the Kingsguard, until his goodbrother, Prince Rhaegar downed him. That had been the last time the Red Viper had been seen north of the Marches – he returned Princess Elia to King's Landing in fury, and left to rejoin his sellswords in the Disputed Lands.

Of what happened next, no one need remind anyone, for it was written in the lines of his face as he approached them and Ned could easily read the Prince of Dorne was blood hungry. But for whom, Ned could not narrow that list of possibilities.

Princess Arianne curtsied before the Council and spoke first amongst them, "My lords of the Small Council, I am come here to present my Uncle, Oberyn. He is fresh arrived off the boat from Dorne, and come here to take part in the Hand's Tourney."

Ned winced at her final two words, but said nothing to correct her. The Red Viper stepped up along side niece, yet still did not speak. No one spoke, all was silent.

The Hand could feel the eyes of his fellow councillors, though. Silently they exchanged glances with one another, and in turn he felt each of them try and catch his eye. Unfazed, Ned kept his gaze firmly on the Dornish. Finally, he raised a hand and spoke, "Well met Prince Oberyn. It has been many years, but even the renown of the Red Viper has reached me in Winterfell."

Prince Oberyn stepped forward, approaching the table now. It was only as he did so that Eddard's gaze slipped passed him for a moment and saw his niece, which truly shocked him. She was, for the first time Eddard had ever seen her, apprehensive and gone truly timid. In his dealings with the Dornishwoman, Princess Arianne had always been brazen, loud in every form of expression and in temperament. At court, everyone knew when she entered a room and eyes always seemed to be drawn to her after so long. Yet now she seemed to shrink back, like the sun in eclipse.

"Yes," the word seemed drawn from Prince Oberyn like a hiss, "my lord hand, yes. It has been a long time since last we met. Much has changed in those years, has it not? You were the second son, and a ward of the Vale, and now you are Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the Kind." Prince Oberyn laid a hand on the Council table and began to pace up and down it, "So much has changed since last we met and last I was in the Capital: there have been new Hands; new councillors; even a new King; a new Queen; new Princes and… Princesses."

Behind him, Prince Oberyn's niece look changed, her biting of her lip went from timid to defiant, and for a moment Ned thought she meant to call out to her uncle, but she said nothing and merely scowled at the Small Council.

"Indeed," Eddard said, coughing slightly, "And I trust to see you turn yourself out well on the King's tourney?"

Prince Oberyn shrugged, "I may. It has been a long time since I have competed in a tourney, may former talents may have rusted. It is good to see you again, Lord Renly," the change of topic caught them all off guard, not least because at the moment the Prince stood before Lord Varys.

Lord Renly looked like a deer caught in a snare, his eyes wide and Eddard noticed a blossoming in his cheeks. "I am glad to see you again, as well, Prince Oberyn." Managed Renly, after a short series of coughing before and after he spoke, as the Prince now came to rest in front of him. Prince Oberyn flicked his head around, trying to catch his eye, but Renly turned toward Ned with a plea for help on his face.

The Hand broke into his relief, "Is there any special reason that you come before the Small Council, Prince Oberyn?" Ned asked.

When he did not speak, Arianne Martell stepped forward a little but kept well away from her Uncle.

"Since the death of Jon Arryn, my lord, there has been several outstanding matters that have been left waiting between the Crown and Sunspear. As you, and I'm sure the rest of the Council, will be aware shortly after the ascension of His Grace, King Robert, to the Iron Throne he sent Lord Jon Arryn to Sunspear to…"

Ned rubbed his head, feeling it starting to ache while the Princess searched for the diplomatic words for the bitter business that had shadowed Robert's crowning. After the Rebellion, Dorne was still burning with outraged, and the Prince Oberyn stoking the passions to try and raise an army for Prince Viserys – Jon Arryn, still fresh as the new Hand to Robert, left for Sunspear to treat with Prince Doran, a pact was formed that no one knew the terms of, and talk of further war was over. Prince Oberyn never again left Dorne, until now.

"My uncle bears a letter from Prince Dornan," Princess Arianne continued, "addressed solely to you, my Lord Hand. He seeks some assurances. My uncle will take your reply back to Sunspear after the tourney."

"Very well," Ned said, cautiously. It seemed to him to trivial a thing for Prince Oberyn to have travelled so far for, just to deliver a letter that any raven might have carried. He held his hand out, "The letter, Prince Oberyn?"

Still stalking up and down the table, Prince Oberyn came to a halt before Ned, reached into clothes and retrieved the letter. Casually, he flicked the folded, wax sealed paper over the table toward him, adding, "For your eyes only, Lord Stark."

Ned glanced either side of him at his fellow councillors as he picked up the Dornish letter, "As you say, ser. I shall read it tonight in my chambers." And with an uneasy feeling in his belly, Eddard tucked away the letter in the pocket of his cloak.

Nodding, the Dornish Princeling bowed low to the whole table in a grand sweeping gesture, and turned on his heels to leave. His niece curtsied as well, then turned and followed him out.

When the door was closed behind them, he heard Renly snort and murmur, "Dornishmen." And dismissively shake his head.

"I have heard quite enough for one day," Ned said loudly, rising. "Until the morrow."

Jory was waiting for him when Ned left the Council chambers. "Summon Robb to the stables and saddle my horse," Ned told him, too brusquely.

"As you say, my lord."

Robb arrived at the stables just as Ned swung his leg onto his horse.

"Father?" He asked, hands on his hips, looking curiously up at him.

"I have business in the city, Robb. Before I return to the Castle I mean to come speak to your friend Rickard. Go tell him."

Frowning, Robb came closer, "I can come with you if you wish? Or at least tell me what you wish to speak to Rick about."

"It is not important," Ned said, "Either he will know already, or not care."

Robb seemed irritated by his curtness, but made no more questions and walked away.

As Ned began to trot out of the yard, a pair of his guards fell in behind him. The day was too hot for his taste, and he imagined that his guards in their mail and steel must have being cooked like pies for a feast yet they said no word of complaint. As he passed under the King's Gate into the stink of the city, his grey and white cloak streaming from his shoulders, he saw eyes everywhere and kicked his mount into a trot. His guard followed.

He looked behind him frequently as they made their way through the crowded city streets. He'd had men out on the streets since the morning, shadowing the route he must take, and any that might be bold enough to follow, even so a creeping feeling went down his back as they road.

The Street of Steel began at the market square beside the Mud Gate. Slynt was right, he thought, the city is fit to burst. A troop of mummers were trailing their act to a crowd in the centre, men on stilts juggling to the fruits off the nearby stalls. Children were running underfoot everywhere, and Ned saw a pair of boys perched on the edge of a fountain duelling with stick, and he felt a pang in his heart – he missed Rickon, and Bran who would never have the chance to duel anyone with sticks anymore.

The Mud Gate was open, and a squad of City Watchmen stood under the portcullis in their golden cloaks. They watched Ned go by with venomous eyes, but the officer in charge of them paid him no mind as he came – he was watching a group across the square, and Ned saw them looking back at the goldcloaks. A band of ruffians to be sure, men in boiled leather and wielding iron weapons and he dismissed them as part of a sellsword company, or part of some rough hedge knight's entourage come to test his mettle in the tournament, yet they wore no badge upon there surcoats, only a black sash across their chests and on their sleeves.

Ned turned onto the Street of Steel began and followed its winding path up a long hill, past blacksmiths working at open forges, freeriders haggling over mail shirts, and grizzled ironmongers selling old blades and razors from their wagons. The farther they climbed, the larger the buildings grew. The man they wanted was all the way at the top of the hill, in a huge house of timber and plaster whose upper stories loomed over the narrow street. Ned dismounted and entered.

The master came hurrying out, all smiles and bows. "Wine for the King's Hand," he told the girl, gesturing Ned to a couch. "I am Tobho Mott, my lord, please, please, put yourself at ease."

This man knows how to flatter his patrons, Ned thought.

"If you are in need of new arms for the Hand's tourney, you could not have chosen a finer armourer than I!"

Ned sipped the wine provided and let the man go on. There was no great lord or knight that did not purchase his arms and armour from him – the Knight of Flowers had ordered his from the Reach and would arrive to collect them any day now; even the King's own brother, Renly sought out Tobho Mott, for whom he had forged the finest green gilded steel, and a helm that glittered with golden antlers. If it was a blade the Lord Hand had need of then he need not seek elsewhere for such either – for Tobho Mott knew the secrets and spells to rework and reforge Valyrian steel.

Ned let him finish, then smiled. "Did you make a falcon helm for Lord Arryn?"

Tobho Mott paused a long moment and set aside his wine. "The Hand did call upon me, with Lord Stannis, the king's other brother. I regret that they did not honour me with their patronage." Ned looked at the man evenly, saying nothing, waiting. He had found over the years that silence sometimes yielded more than questions. And so it was this time. "They asked to see the boy, so I took them back to the forge."

"The boy?"

Tobho Mott gave him a cool, careful look. Carefully, his tongue timidly teasing his lips, he asked, "Would my lordship want to see the boy as well?"

Ned nodded, and he led him out a rear door and across back to where the work was done. The door open, and Ned had to hold up a hand to try and protect himself from the blast of hot air that greeted them.

The master called over a tall lad about Robb's age, his arms and chest corded with muscle. "This is Lord Stark, the new Hand of the King," he told him as the boy looked at Ned through sullen blue eyes and pushed back sweat-soaked hair with his fingers. Thick hair, shaggy and unkempt and black as ink. The shadow of a new beard darkened his jaw. "This is Gendry. Strong for his age, and he works hard. Show the Hand that helmet you made, lad." Almost shyly, the boy led them to his bench, and a steel helm shaped like a bull's head, with two great curving horns.

Ned turned the helm over in his hands. It was raw steel, unpolished but expertly shaped. "This is fine work. I would be pleased if you would let me buy it."

The boy snatched it out of his hands. "It's not for sale."

Tobho Mott thumped him hard on the back of the head, and yanked him by the ear, "Boy, this is the King's Hand! If his lordship wants this helm, you will make him a gift of it!"

"I made it for me," the boy said stubbornly, trying to pull his head away from his master's grasp.

"Pardons, my lord," his master said hurriedly to Ned, releasing Gendry in disgust. "Truly, this one would profit more from a beating than the steel he works. Please forgive him and you shall have my finest work, better that this poor thing."

"He's done nothing that requires my forgiveness. Gendry, when Lord Arryn came to see you, what did you talk about?"

Questions, questions and questions were all that Jon and Stannis asked of him – it didn't take long for Ned to understand, yet the understanding left him more puzzled than he had been before. Robert's son, Robert's bastard son – what could have Jon wanted from him, and what was it about this boy that was worth him dying over?

Ned left after he knew all that he needed to and continued to ponder over the whole matter as he turned off his path back to the Red Keep, down a side street. The whole castle knew of the tavern where Prince Rickard had taken to now that he was barred from the Red Keep for reasons that ned still felt ill at ease with – and when Ned finally turned on the right street someone began to shout him.

"Lord Eddard! Lord Eddard!"

Ned looked down and a blonde youth in bright blue and white striped doublet was walking toward him – at first he paused cause he though that the lad was a Lannister, then when he realised it wasn't the black sash across his chest gave him further pause.

"Harrold Hardyng," Ned declared, holding up a hand to greet him, "I have not seen you at the castle of late since we arrived in the Capital."

Hardyng shrugged, "Yeah, I gave up on it – I'm down here with Rickard now." He stood before Ned's horse, hands on his hips, "Robb said you'd be coming by," he beckoned Ned down with his hand, "Come, leave your horse, I'll take you to Rick. We'll bring your men something to drink with this heat."

Ned frowned as Harrold Hardyng turned away from him, and reluctantly swung down off his horse and followed him down the street and into the Prince's tavern.

It was quiet inside, and he spotted the Prince immediately, at a table by the fireplace writing on a piece of parchment before him, with several stacks of golden dragons surrounding him. Harrold Hardyng and himself approached the table, but the Prince did not look up nor his quill stop writing, not even when Hardyng said, "Lord Eddard for you, Rick."

When he finished writing, Prince Rickard blew lightly on the page to dry the ink and counted out a hand full of coins to his hand, "Harry," he said, motioning with his hand for the lad to approached, as his face kept to the table. The Prince's friend rounded the table and dipped his head in close, they whispered quickly to one another – then Rickard pressed the coins onto Harrold's palm, and the Valeman picked up the parchment, blew on it himself and folded it in half and took it away.

Rickard Baratheon rubbed his eyes with his hands, yawned and stretched, then finally looked at Eddard, smiling. "Forgive my manners, my lord. I find that time and tide are fickle and wait for no man. Please sit yourself down." He gestured at the seat across from him.

Just as Ned began to seat himself, the prince rose, "Drink?"

Ned nodded, and the Prince sauntered across to the tavern bar, jumped across it picked up a bottle, and returned with two small, clay cups. He set the bottle on the table and one cup before Lord Eddard then seated himself once more, and began to pour.

"Robb tells me that in the North you rarely get chance to sup on the honey liquor we call mead. I suppose it's those Old Gods you worship – see in the South, mostly its Septries that make mead, only Septons and Holy Brothers have the time and no the arts to extract the honey." The Prince picked up his cup and toasted, "Your health, Lord Eddard."

He picked up his cup touched the prince's with it, then sipped lightly. When Ned set down his cup on the table, his eyes lingered on the gold coins on the table, "The word at the Red Keep was, is, that you were poor, my prince."

Rickard smirked, "Oh, in former days, and with my allowances from the crown cut in order to help pay the Crown's considerable debts I am by no means as wealthy as I ought to be. Yet it appears, Lord Stark, amidst my other misfortunes I have landed amongst a gold mine." He indicated his tavern and the walls surrounding it, "Who'd have though that in selling my silks and jewels to try and scratch a place in the world I would have struck on such a thick, rich vein with quartz crushing out of it?"

"So you are not destitute as you once were?"

The Prince shrugged, "In some ways I'm richer and others I'm poorer. But that's my business, and some," he pointed at the badge pinned to Ned's chest, "are due respect as not to be bothered with other's petty trifles."

Ned felt his frown deepened, "Except your 'petty trifles' do bother me, Prince Rickard."

The prince's smile dropped for a moment, "You mean Janos Slynt. I heard that he went to the Council today."

"He says…" Ned began, but the prince cut him off.

"I know the kind of thing that he'll have said. That I am a monster, causing chaos and running riot around the city, dealing death with one hand and stringing up goldcloaks by their thumbs with another. Bollocks the lot of it. Now, lend me your ear, my lord, while I tell you about Janos Slynt."

The prince drained his cup then poured another.

"See from what Robb tells me of the North things are cut and dried – good and bad, peace and war, just and unjust. Well, in King's Landing, as I'm sure you are beginning to understand things are more complex." He held up a fist, "See on one hand we have Janos Slynt, Lord Commander of the City Watch, meant to keep the King's peace and enforce the King's laws," he held up the other fist, "and on the other hand there is me: a prince, meant swear fealty, live by the King's peace and obey the King's laws. Yet the way that Slynt keeps his king's peace, is by breaking his King's laws – he harangues good and honest businessmen of the city, forces them to pay for his protection, elsewise all manner of foul things happen, mainly by his own goldcloaks. Any who challenge him and speak out end with their throats cut and face down in the Blackwater. Yet when a Prince finds himself to be just like every other business owner in the city, and asked to pay, and he knows its wrong and he says 'No, Lord commander, I will not and I will fight you over this if I must'… well, my lord hand, what is a prince to do?" Prince Rickard took up his cup again, "I give you the situation, my lord."

Ned sighed, "I am the King's Hand, my prince. I must enforce the King's law, his peace, his justice – it is my duty."

"Which I understand and respect," said Rickard, amiably, "and with you not being some whore like Janos Slynt that actually takes his duty as a duty and not a chance to fatten his pockets, I'd like the chance to help ease the burden that this puts you in."

This Rickard seemed to wily to Ned to just concede his defeat so meekly. There was Robert in this boy, Ned thought so much of Robert, more so it seemed than the bastard he'd seen scarcely an hour ago. Courageous, and reckless and thirsty for a scrap, "And you seek not to profit from this yourself, my prince?"

Suddenly, someone came from behind Ned quickly. It almost startled him, to see the blonde haired youth come past so quietly, especially when he realised it was a Lannister this time. He dipped low and whispered in Rickard's ear, who pricked up at the words, where before he had seen disinterested at the interruption.

"You're sure?" the prince asked, a finger going to his beard.

The Lannister nodded, then Prince Rickard looked down his lips pursed, "Alright. Thanks, Ty." And the interloper left without a second word.

Scratching at his beard, the prince raised his cup in his right hand and looked back to Ned, "My oath to this promise, Lord Stark: for as long as my father and the rest of the court look down from the Red Keep at my quarrel with Janos Slynt and say, 'won't these savages ever stop colliding heads with one another and stop the bloodshed', I promise to keep the king's peace intact, and spill no more blood for the duration of this tourney."

"And after the tourney?"

"After the tourney for as long as it takes for me to be sure I can bring down Janos Slynt, but as a gesture to you – I'll make no move without consulting you first."

Ned did not like it, but it was better than what he hoped for, and Robb vouched for his word. What other option did he have, when it kept the blood from running? He had come here with a prince and the goldcloaks ready to make war on one another, yet the prince out of respect for him offered restraint.

"Very well, my Prince, I agree. But know it saddens me you are dropped to this level. Bartering like a cutthroat, in a back alley and quarrelling with the Commander of the Goldcloaks. Whatever you think of him, Janos Slynt is the Officer Commanding the City Watch."

Prince Rickard said nothing more, merely gestured at the door for him to leave. It wasn't until Eddard had a hand on the door the prince called out.

"Of course, I'll also do the one thing that Janos Slynt can't do during this tourney!"

Cautiously, Ned looked over his shoulder, "My Prince?"

"What do you expect to happen when The Red Viper of Dorne and The Mountain That Rides bump into one another on the tourney ground? How do you expect Dorne will react when Prince Oberyn rises up, in righteous indignation, and tries to claim justice for his murdered sister after twenty years? What do you expect Dorne to do when he dies? What will you do when the Dornishman have hosts marching across the Reach to burn and kill every Westerman they see and that stands in the way of them and the Mountain?" Rickard shrugged and turned, his voice irritated, "Ah, not to worry, my lord, I'll be sure to fix that problem for you."

With regret, Ned closed the door and left for his letter and more important, his book.