299 AC

Eddard Stark

He had just finished dealing with court, sat upon the metal monstrosity, when the imp of lions approached him. He had requested to meet in private. 'Shall I have Lord Stannis fetched?' He had asked. The imp did not care, so as the two climbed the tower of the hand, he had one of his household guards go to the quarters of the Master of Laws. While they waited for their third member, the icy Quiet Wolf and the jovial little lion enjoyed a shared ale, and humorous stories, mostly on the part of the imp. Then, a knock came.

"Enter!" Opening the door, Stannis Baratheon walked into the chamber.

"My Lord Hand, you called for me?"

"Yes. It appears in the days following our previous arrangements, it seems Lord Tyrion was able to finish his investigation."

"Very well." Stannis curtly responded, taking a seat next to Tyrion.

"Lord Tyrion, please, share with us what you know."

Reaching to his wine, to wet hiss throat 'fore he spoke, Tyrion drank deeply. "With the assistance of my good man Bronn-"

"Who?" Stannis unceremoniously interrupted.

"A sellsword that I met on the road south. We shared some wine together in a tavern and enjoyed each other's company. I agreed to take him into my service. Back to my point; I was able to both bribe, threaten, coerce, and…pleasure certain individuals to learn all I need."

"And what have you discovered?"

"That Petyr Baelish is as crafty as he is charismatic. For the most part, I was befuddled at every step of this process. Even some bribes did not work on those expected. In complete honesty, my breakthrough did not come until I went to seek my own private pleasure in one of the brothels of the city."

"Spare us from details my lord." Stannis commented.

"Apologies my lord. I know it has been some time since you have enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh."

Oh, he had gone too far. Over a year ago, it had been announced that Lady Selyse had perished on the birthing bed, leaving Stannis a widower with his only surviving child, Lady Shireen.

"Lord Tyrion, you go too far." Stannis replied hotly. He had even stood and laid a hand on the pommel of his blade.

"Stannis! Calm yourself! As for you Lord Tyrion, I cannot always shield the fury, you'd best watch your tone." Eddard commented in an icy and cold voice.

Both men looked at him and relaxed. His own children thought that it was his voice that was able to command such respect or loyalty. It was, in some part, but not completely. His father had once taught him and Brandon about the 'Stark Eyes.' A man like Tywin Lannister would harden his gaze; to incite fear or demand respect from those he gazed upon. However, the gaze of the Starks, was something even more terrifying.

Complete and utter apathy.

When others looked into the hardened eyes of a true Stark of Winterfell, it was difficult not to shutter. It was not anger or disappointment that was held in the eyes. It was nothing more than a simple understanding. It was the uncaring attitude. That whoever held the misfortune of receiving that gaze, knew that in the eyes of the Stark, they meant nothing. They could be dealt with as one deals with a pest. There was not hatred, but a simple understanding, that they meant nothing to the Stark. 'Twas almost like looking into the eyes of a dead man, the eyes betrayed nothing, and expected everything.

"Tyrion, continue."

"Regardless, while I was enjoying the pleasures of a woman, she let it slip where Littlefinger kept his records. Immediately, I had Bronn assist me in breaking into the small room and scavenging everything of use. I have spent the last day going over the records."

"And what was found?"

"That Petyr Baelish may be the greatest robber in the history of Westeros. According to his own books, he has been able to syphon gold and others treasure from the taxes of lords, as well as steal from the Iron Bank while signing as the Iron Throne, thereby leaving him without any of the threat."

Both he and Stannis sat back in their chairs. "And this evidence…it is safe, yes?"

"It is under the personal care of Bronn at the very moment."

"Yet he's a sellsword. What is to say that he will not betray you for Littlefinger?"

"Because I once promised him that whatever someone offers him, I shall double it. And should I refuse to pay him afterwards, that he may slay me where I stand."

Eddard did not like sellswords, but he relented. How another man dealt with one was none of his business…at the moment.

"Very well…you have my thanks Lord Tyrion. Make sure you present yourself in court on the 'morrow. I am sure you will understand."

"Of course, my Lord Hand." Both the imp and the Lord of Dragonstone stood and made for the door when he called out.

"Lord Tyrion, a word in private?"

Stannis looked between the both of them before leaving himself. Tyrion sat back down in his chair and poured himself more wine.

"You have my thanks on this matter. Have you had any luck of finding evidence of his other…crime?"

He could tell that Tyrion was confused for a moment before his eyes widened. "Apologies my Lord Hand. I was barely lucky enough to find this evidence. I must regret to inform you that I have not found evidence for what befell your…injured wolf."

"…I am happy about this development, but I cannot fault you for not finding all the evidence."

"I am curious. If I may Lord Stark…how are you going to deal with Baelish?"

And Tyrion saw why the wolf was the most feared predator. Because Eddard Stark wore a grin. And the icy Lord of the North never grinned.

"You shall find out with the rest of the court on the 'morrow. But I am sure that Baelish will not like it whatsoever."


"All rise for Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King!" Ser Jory called out. Eddard entered not from the small alcove from beside the iron throne, but rather from the main entrance, electing to walk the entire distance to the throne. The room was silent apart from the stomping of armored guards flanking Lord Stark on both sides.

Reaching the bottom of the steps, he took a silent, deep breathe in before releasing it. He slowly climbed the steps and turned to sit on the ugly chair.

"My lords I must apologize, but today cannot be open to normal court. For today, this court has been summoned to see justice done." He loudly, yet calmy reported.

To his immediate right and left, on one step lower, sat the members of the Small Council. Stannis Baratheon sat closest to him on the right. To the right of the Master of Laws sat the newly appointed Master of Ships, Lord Jason Mallister. To Eddard's left sat Lord Varys and to his left, Petyr Baelish. Grand Maester Pycelle stood a further step down, far to the left.

"My lords, I must admit the most shocking of discoveries. A treason that is on par with the Blackfyres and the Defiance at Duskendale."

"Who!" An unknown voice called out from the crowd. He could not tell from whom it had come from, but he noticed others in attendance. The Queen, with her permanent scowl set on her face. Her younger brother, the imp, who simply stood watching with detached eyes. A tall but thin man with wiry black hair stood just to the left of him. Must be the sellsword Bronn.

The tension in the room was rising, so he stood, and the quiet mutterings stopped as well. Besides Tyrion and Stannis, none of the other members of the Small Council knew what had happened either. Though it seemed that Varys did not seem interested. Perhaps he knew, or not, regardless, this court must go on.

He steeled himself. "Lord Petyr Baelish."

He heard gasps from the crowd and the room all turn and look at the man.

"Lord Stark?"

"Ser Mandon! Bring the traitor forward!" He called out.

Instead of going into the crowd, normal for most of the Kingsguard, Ser Mandon turned and marched up the steps, he grabbed the now terrified Baelish and practically fished him out of the chair. As a mother would with a child, Ser Mandon, simply holding onto Littlefinger's arm, pulled him from the dais and marched him to the center of the hall, before the iron throne.

"Lord Petyr Baelish, you have been accused of treason to the Iron Throne, for beggaring the King of his treasury, of stealing from House Lannister, House Stark, House Baratheon, and all other houses which send their taxes to King's Landing. You are accused of stealing from the Iron Bank of Braavos and using the Iron Throne to serve as your shield. How do you plead!?"

"Lord Stark…forgive me, but I am bit confused?"

He knew the man wished to engage in a battle of words, but true to his Stark blood, he would simply change the game.

"What charges confuse you? The fact that the Throne has found irrefutable proof that you have been stealing from your liege lord, Jon Arryn, that you have been stealing from Tywin Lannister, that you have been stealing from me!?" Was he outraged? Yes. But his anger was not the loud kind of the South. No, he shouted to rile up the southerners at court. He learned from his life, that if you convince the crowd, you convince the realm. "Do you deny it?"

"Lord Stark, please, if I can only-"

"Do you deny it?"

"Lord Stark-"

"DO YOU DENY IT?!"

"I deny it!"

He nodded solemnly. "Let the court remember that Petyr Baelish denied any wrongdoing. It seems Lord Baelish, that you needed a better place to hide your evidence than in the chambers of a whorehouse." He could hear a number of people chuckle to themselves while some others gasped.

"Such evidence was planted by my enemies, surely."

"Yet it is done in your own hand?"

"Forgery!"

He made his tone cold and low. "A truth…or a hope?" He made sure to smile sinisterly. The shouting of the hall was sucked out. Leaving only a quiet room. The southerners had fully seen the Wolf of the North.

Baelish looked around the room, hoping to see someone come to his rescue. Seeing that no one was coming, he looked back up.

"I demand a trial by combat!" The hall descended into mutterings.

He held his hand up to signal for quiet. "You wish a trial by combat?" Baelish nodded.

"Very well. Who shall be your champion?"

And Baelish smiled. "I call on Ser Jaime Lannister! I am still a member of the Small Council, and it is within my rights to call on a Kingsguard!"

He turned his head to the golden-haired knight, standing beside the Queen. "Ser Jaime, do you accept serving as the champion for Lord Petyr Baelish?"

The cocky knight smiled. "Lord Hand, it is unusual for the Crown to allow a Kingsguard to serve as a champion against the Crown itself."

"Worry not Ser. I am of the North, and I do not worry about the customs of the South. Do you accept serving as Baelish's champion?"

The knight looked to his sister who merely shrugged.

"I do, Lord Hand."

"Good. Ser Jory, have the guards escort all who wish to witness this to the tiltyard…now."

That shocked a number of people. Pycelle stepped forward. "My Lord Hand, would it not be appropriate to conduct this matter at a different time?"

"Why? So as to allow the moon to watch, or tomorrow's sun? Baelish has called for trial by combat…he shall have it."

The entire hall emptied as the court was move outside. He was the last one out with Stannis right next to him. "Lord Stark, who will serve as the Crown's champion?" He worriedly asked. He did not blame the man. He knew of Baelish's guilt, but it would be hard-pressed to defeat the Kingslayer. "Just watch my lord."

Quickly enough, the courtyard had been filled. On one end stood Baelish, being guarded by Ser Mandon, while Ser Jaime stood ahead of him a few steps. Ned was the last one to approach.

"Lord Stark, who shall serve as the Crown's champion?" Ser Jaime questioned.

The crowd held their breath as they awaited the answer.

"Me." He answered simply.

And oh how did the crowd shout. There were shouts of him to pick someone else. There were shouts congratulating him on his honor. But he simply ignored the crowd. From behind him, he heard his personal guard begin to fetch his armor of old, the armor he had worn during Robert's Rebellion. The Kingslayer looked over to the Queen worried, but he actually saw the Queen smile. it was difficult not to smile himself.

He never openly vaunted his own skill at arms. He allowed his actions to speak. He did not enjoy tourneys. And many present, had never seen him in battle. The Kingslayer had not, Stannis had not. Other than Ser Jory and some of the older guards, the only other person he realized may have been Lord Jason Mallister himself.

His guards began armoring him. 'Twas not the shining plate of southern knights. Oh it was castle-hardened steel, aye, but it was anything but shining. It was crafted to be as black as night, with only the wolf symbol being a lighter shade of grey. The armor bore scars and nicks. It was an armor that held a story. He sorely missed Ice, but he would not risk it in this viper's nest of a city. Thankfully he borrowed the claymore of one of his guards.

The Kingslayer was armored in his golden armor, with not a blemish in sight. He was swinging his blade in his wrist. But it was himself that the crowd was focused on. It seems, that they too realize they had never seen Eddard Stark in combat. After all, according to stories, he had fought the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne.

The two men took some steps forward. Both had their visors still up.

"To first blood Stark? Can you handle that?"

"To yield, first blood…or to death. It is up to you how much you wish to take."

The Kingslayer simply laughed. Eddard noticed out of the corners of his eyes, many of the court were putting forth wagers to each other.

Grand Maester Pycelle stepped forth. "In the absence of the High Septon, I take it upon myself to begin this trial. May the gods bless he who is innocent." He stepped back, behind the circle of soldiers serving as the boundary before he called out. "Begin!"

He had not fought the Kingslayer before either, but he certainly would not wait. He had seen the knight in melees. He usually tried to attack first and in a fury of blades, overwhelm or tire out his opponent. He would not allow that. As soon as Pycelle announced the beginning of the trial, Eddard sprinted forth.

Evidently this mildly surprised the Kingslayer, but even more so when he hammered the claymore down so hard, that Jaime barely had time to bring his sword to block. So strong was his first attack that he still forced the Kingslayer to almost kneel, the blade near a shoulder pauldron. Ser Jaime spun away before the blade went any further.

And so the two warriors went at it. And as much as he hated court life, he was mildly pleased that he had surprised not only the lion knight, but also many of the onlookers.

He was no mere warrior; he was the Quiet Wolf, the Wolf of the North, and the one he heard after the Trident...the Wolf of Death.

Ser Jaime swung his sword fast. Faster than most men could even see the blade. But for every lunge of the Kingslayer, the Quiet Wolf would simply use his great skill at the claymore to bash the blade aside. Still, he needed to focus, he could not allow his opponent to get the better of him.

Finally, he decided to employ an old trick from when he trained with Robert as a boy. Eddard Stark gave up his fierce onslaught. He moved to the defensive. Ser Jaime seized this chance and renewed his attack on the Lord of the North.

You see, Robert was a master at the warhammer. And Eddard had lost many a time to him in the Eyrie. But he learned that if he could tire his opponent, and feign exhaustion, he could redouble his own efforts.

And so he slowly, but in a controlled manner, gave up inch after inch of space. He knew that Ser Jaime was not a completely foolish swordsman, however. So he would lash out, 'try' to go on the offensive, only to be 'pushed' back once more. Nearly there. He allowed his arms to relax. Not so far as to be bashed aside, but enough to allow his muscles to have a moment to relax.

He had been pushed back nearly five paces, and even the faces on his own men; Ser Jory, Stannis, Mallister, were faces of worry.

Not yet not yet.

This is how he had defeated Robert many times over, how he had defeated Ser Barristan the Bold at the Trident, how he had killed Ser Arthur Dayne at the Tower of Joy.

Ser Jaime was not a foolish swordsman. But he was an arrogant man. And despite his own training, Eddard could tell that his pride was growing. He bore a shite-eating grin if he had ever seen one. And he noticed that the Queen shared such a grin.

Just before they reached the edge of the boundary, he spun away getting many paces between he and Ser Jaime. It wasn't until then that he realized how tired he had become. Certainly Ser Jaime was a dangerous opponent.

But his strategy still held. Ser Jaime only lazily approached him. He made sure to make himself look tired, he drank in deep breathes of air, made sure to rest the point of his blade on the ground.

"Tired already mutt?" The knight mocked.

The Kingslayer had approached to one pace away. Now!

And how it felt good to unleash the wolf. In the blink of an eye, he swung the claymore with naught but his sword arm and bashed the Kingslayer's blade away. He grabbed the blade with a full grip and went on the offensive, but now, it was the Kingslayer who was actually beginning to tire. I cannot draw this out to much longer!

He pushed the Kingslayer back faster than he himself had been. Ser Jaime thrusted his sword high, aiming for his midsection…when Eddard's brain told him to do something foolish.

It was foolish. It was oh so foolish.

But battles are won on daring and luck after all.

The Kingslayer's blade reached the pinnacle of it deadly reach, as he dodged it, he did not allow the Kingsguard to pull back. Using his left hand, Eddard reached out, and literally grabbed the blade with this gauntlet.

Perhaps Ser Jaime expected him to move slower, perhaps trying to attack with the claymore using one hand.

Eddard, still holding onto the blade, pushed laterally. His plate glove may not have held grip on the metal blade, but the Kingslayer could not pull back if his shoulder itself was being rolled back. The body simply wouldn't allow it.

Eddard unceremoniously dropped the claymore and brought his right hand in a great fist. With one great strike, he smashed his fist into the lighter-armored lower torso. Quickly he smashed it again right into the Kingslayer's left ear, no doubt making it ring inside the metal helmet.

The Kingsguard was only mildly dazed. But it was just what Eddard needed. He stomped his strong foot forward and pushed harder, allowing his gauntlet to slide down the blade, near to the hilt. Using his leverage, he was able to twist the blade out from the Kingslayer's hand.

Sticking his foot between the royal protector's legs, he pushed further so as to trip him over. Ser Jaime landed, with the wind pushed out of him. Many warriors would have left to retrieve their own blade, but there was no time.

Reaching down, he grabbed the Kingslayer's own dagger from 'round his belt. He tore off his helm and bore the smaller blade against the golden-haired man's neck.

The tiltyard was as silent as a barrow.

"Do. You. Yield?" He asked his most menacing tone.

The Lannister looked red with fury. "What happened to the supposed honor of the Quiet Wolf?"

"It hides 'neath the battle-fury of the Quiet Wolf." He calmy responded. But he pushed the dagger even tighter against the knight's neck.

"Do. You. Yield!?"

"I…I…I yield." He had tried to resist but gave up. Eddard stood up and reclaimed the claymore. The tiltyard was still as silent as the wastes of Old Valyria. He looked over to Pycelle whose old jaw had dropped and seemed to have difficulty speaking.

"Grand Maester, do your duty." He strictly reprimanded.

With a great amount of stuttering and whispers of shock, the old man came forth to the tiltyard.

"The gods have granted favor to…to…to Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Hand of the King!"

Still, the area was silent, 'til Stannis stood and slowly clapped, his own mouth open. Jason soon followed. Only moments later, the entire court was loudly applauding him.

He returned to his side with Ser Jory as the Queen turned and left. Ser Jaime was being helped up by his brother of the Kingsguard, Ser Boros Blount.

And now Petyr looked absolutely petrified. And Tyrion…well he looked relieved. Wonder why?

After the plates of his armor were stripped, he turned to the crowd. "This day is not over! We return to the great hall now!"

The entire court, now fully invested in today's subject, eagerly allowed themselves to be escorted back inside the Red Keep proper.


After a handful of minutes, Eddard Stark found himself sat back upon the iron throne once more. Before him, the court of Robert Baratheon watched with renewed interest. Littlefinger stood before the throne.

"Lord Baelish, you had called for a trial by combat to decide you innocence. It seems the gods have indeed decided."

"My lord-"

"You have been found guilty of treason against the Iron Throne and of robbering the Houses Lannister, Baratheon, Stark, Tully, Arryn, Martell, and Tyrell. There is usually only one sentence for this."

Littlefinger gulped.

"And yet, there is evidence that this slippery behavior goes back years, even when you were naught but a little lordling in the Vale and the Riverlands. And so I shall give you a fate worse than death!"

The mutterings of the crowd grew.

"I, Eddard, of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Do, as Hand of the King declare, that you, Petyr Baelish are hereby attainted of all titles and positions. You are hereby stripped of your Small Council seat. You are hereby stripped of the title of Lord of the Fingers. You are hereby stripped of all wealth and status that you possess."

With every word, the man became more pale. But the worst was yet to come. Eddard knew that he had stolen money to grow rich. To grow his influence. He would simply make it, so he held none.

"Any and all debts that are owed to you or to your formally held titles are hereby abolished. You are hereby exiled from the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. You shall be escorted to the docks for a ship for Essos. Should you step foot back in Westeros again, your life is forfeit. Should you attempt to contact any lord, knight, or smallfolk of Westeros, either by raven or message, your life shall be forfeit. Should you seek to call in debts that have been abolished…your life shall be forfeit! And let it be known that any lord, knight, or smallfolk who seeks to assist Petyr Baelish in any way shape or form…shall be considered an accomplice to his crimes, and will be dealt with accordingly.

Not only had Littlefinger blanched, but many in the room had done so as well.

"This, I proclaim in the name of Robert, of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"

Oh how he would remember the sweet feeling of seeing all the faces of the hall, of awe-inspired to fear. It was oh so sweet. A quiet one perhaps, but he was a wolf, nonetheless.


Petyr Baelish

Oh how he should have been better prepared. He like many thought the icy Lord of the North was too cold for courtly games…as he learned to his disaster.

The boat was uncomfortable, he did not agree with sea travel, and he had lost all of his wealth. But…

But he had heard of a particular rumor in Essos. Of a pretender king under the guardianship of the Old Griff of Griffin's Roost.

Perhaps I can offer my 'services' to this pretender. He thought.

He had fallen from the ladder, but he would simply climb again.


*And the Quiet Wolf shows his fangs! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, along with the previous one! Leave let me know how you liked this one.