Tyrion

Robb Stark sat in the lord's chair, his back straight, his expression hard. Tyrion had met the young wolf before, during his first visit to Winterfell, but now, the boy had grown - or tried to. His eyes were of ice, cold and suspicious, a far cry from the open, curious boy Tyrion had seen merely over a month's time before. The warmth that usually came with Northern hospitality was conspicuously absent.

"Tyrion," Robb said, his voice strained, "Welcome back to Winterfell." He did not rise from his seat. His words were stiff, brittle, like a sword unsheathed and yet unused, a threat veiled in his greeting spoken.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow at the cold reception but smiled all the same. "My Lord," he replied, his tone light, almost playful. "It seems Winterfell has grown colder in my absence. And here I thought it was only the Wall that knew such frost."

Robb's lips tightened into a thin line. "Winter is coming, Lannister."

"Indeed it is," Tyrion agreed. His legs ached from the journey, and he took a moment to steady himself. "Did I offend you somehow during my last visit? I did tumble with many of whores, perhaps you favored one of them? My apologies."

Robb's expression darkened, but he said nothing.

"Ah," Tyrion said, stepping closer, his impish grin widening, "you've been practicing, haven't you? But might I suggest a refresher on courtesies, my lord? A little warmth never hurt, not even in the North."

The jape seemed to only harden Robb's stare. The boy was trying so hard to play the part of a stern lord, but his discomfort was evident. Tyrion could almost hear his father's voice, echoing from some long-remembered lesson: Lord is a title earned.

Before Robb could reply, the heavy doors of the hall swung open, and in lumbered Hodor, the simpleton, with Bran Stark in his arms. The sight of the boy, small and frail in Hodor's grasp, brought a rare pang of sympathy to Tyrion's heart.

"Hodor," the giant mumbled, bending over so that Bran would be eye level with the dwarf. Bran's face was as pale as the snow outside, and his eyes, once full of life, were shadowed with a deep sadness.

Tyrion walked over to him and met Bran's gaze. "Young Bran," he said softly, "how fare you?"

Bran's eyes flickered with something - hope, perhaps, or curiosity. "Well enough," he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Tyrion reached into his coat and pulled out a rolled parchment, sealed with the Lannister lion. "I've brought you a gift," he said, offering it to the boy. "A design. For a saddle."

Bran looked at the parchment but made no move to take it. Tyrion unfurled it for him, revealing a detailed drawing of a saddle that would allow Bran to ride, even in his crippled state.

"You see," Tyrion explained, "with this saddle, you'll be able to sit astride a horse again. You'll ride just like you used to - perhaps even faster. Your legs may be broken, but your spirit is not. And that, my boy, is what matters most."

Bran's eyes widened as he stared at the design. "You…you made this?"

"I commissioned it," Tyrion said. "I may be a dwarf, but I know the value of a good seat. I've ridden a few horses in my time, and I've had to make more than a few adjustments. Consider this my small contribution to your future adventures."

Bran reached for the parchment, his small hands trembling slightly as he took it. "Thank you," he whispered.

Tyrion smiled and gave him a nod. "You're welcome, Bran. And when you're ready to ride again, I'll be sure to bring you a horse fit for a Stark."

Robb, who had been watching the exchange in silence, finally spoke. "You didn't have to do this," he said, his tone softer now, though still guarded.

"I know," Tyrion said, turning to face him. "But I wanted to. Contrary to popular belief, I am not entirely heartless."

Robb's eyes flickered with something akin to gratitude, though his wariness remained. "Thank you," he said, after a pause. "You can stay here in Winterfell, if you wish."

Tyrion chuckled, waving off the offer. "I appreciate the gesture, my lord, but I think I'll take my leave of your hospitality. The inn down the road suits me just fine. I've grown accustomed to more modest accommodations."

Without waiting for a response, Tyrion turned on his heel and made his way out of the hall. The cold air hit him like a slap, but he welcomed it. The tension inside had been stifling, and he preferred the open air, even if it was freezing.

As he reached his horse, Theon Greyjoy emerged from the shadows, a lazy smirk on his face. "Leaving so soon, Imp?"

Tyrion tightened the strap on his saddle. "Ah, the Greyjoy whelp," he said without looking up. "Where is Lady Stark? I expected her to greet me herself."

Theon's smirk faltered, just for a moment. "She's…away. At prayer, I believe."

Tyrion glanced up, his mismatched eyes glinting with amusement. "Prayer, is it? My, how pious. But no, I suspect she's not here at all, is she? No matter. I have a knack for noticing such things."

Theon's face hardened, but he said nothing.

Tyrion mounted his horse with some effort, settling into the saddle. "Tell me, Greyjoy, how does it feel to be the Starks' pet? I imagine it's not too different from the kennels you grew up in, except now you have a new master to bow and scrape to."

Theon's eyes flashed with anger, but Tyrion pressed on.

"It must gall you, I imagine," Tyrion continued, "being so close to power, yet so far from it. You wear their colors, speak their words, but you are not one of them, are you? No, you'll always be a Greyjoy. And we both know what happened to your family's rebellion, don't we?"

Theon's jaw clenched. "We fought to the last man," he said through gritted teeth. "We were outnumbered ten to one, but we fought."

"A noble effort," Tyrion said, "if not a particularly intelligent one. Rebellion born of ignorance or desperation, perhaps. But tell me, Greyjoy, are you planning to repeat your family's mistakes? Will you wait for your chance to rise against your new masters? It's in your blood, after all, to play the part of the fool."

Theon stepped closer, his hands balling into fists. "Watch your tongue, Imp," he growled.

Tyrion tilted his head, feigning innocence. "I meant no offense. I admire your loyalty, truly. It must take a great deal of self-control to be such an obedient servant while your true nature festers beneath the surface. I can sympathize."

Theon's face flushed with anger, but before he could retort, Tyrion leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But a word of advice, dear Greyjoy: my nephew, Boryn, it is not his nature to forgive. If the Ironborne were to rise again while he sits the Iron Throne…well, let's just say he has a temper that would make Maegor blush. And when the storm breaks, I fear there would be nothing left of Pyke or your people."

Theon's eyes burned with rage, but he held his tongue. Tyrion straightened in his saddle and gave a mock bow.

"Until we meet again, Greyjoy. Try not to let the wolves eat you alive."

Eddard

Ned sat at the head of the table in the council chamber in the dimly lit hall, the faint flicker of candlelight casting shadows against the stone walls.

The small council had assembled once again, a group of men who, despite their titles and positions, often felt as distant to him as the snows of Winterfell.

To his left sat Varys, the whisperer, his bald head gleaming like polished ivory, his robes flowing in folds of soft silk.

To his right was Renly Baratheon, young and bold, his easy smile adorning his youthful visage.

Beyond them sat the others: Grand Maester Pycelle, nodding his head in half-sleep as he stroked his long white beard, and Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger, ever-smirking, his fingers laced before him in mock patience.

And at the end of the table, Boryn Baratheon sat, the son of the king, his demeanor cold and severe.

Ned looked to Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch, standing before them in his gleaming armor, sweat dripping from his brow despite the cool air.

His beady eyes darted from one face to the next.

"My lords," Slynt began, his voice tremulous, "there is trouble in the streets. The city swells with every passing day as more come to King's Landing for the Tourney of the Hand. The smallfolk gather in droves, and with them come beggars, thieves, and worse. My men can barely keep the peace as it is, I fear we are losing control."

Varys's soft voice cut through the tension like a knife through silk. "How dreadful," he murmured, his hands clasped before him. "The poor folk of King's Landing deserve better, do they not? To be preyed upon in their own streets… I shudder to think."

Renly chuckled at Janos's plight, the laughter was light. "If you cannot keep the peace, Janos, perhaps we should find someone who can. There's no shortage of men who would relish the chance to don that golden cloak of yours."

Slynt paled, his face tightening in fear and indignation. "My lord, I beg you, I only ask for more men. If I had the numbers—"

Ned raised a hand to silence him. "You shall have fifty more men, Janos. I will see to it that they are equipped and ready within the fortnight."

He turned his gaze to Baelish. "Lord Baelish, you will see that they are compensated fairly, as befits their station."

Baelish inclined his head, a thin smile curling at the edges of his mouth. "Of course, Lord Hand. Fair pay for fair work."

Ned turned back to Slynt. "And I will send twenty of my own personal guard to bolster your men. They are loyal and well-trained. They will aid you in keeping the peace."

Slynt looked momentarily relieved, but before he could voice his thanks, Boryn spoke, his voice cutting through the chamber with a chill that made even Ned pause.

"Tell me, Janos," Boryn said, leaning forward, his dark eyes fixed on the commander, "who appointed you to your position as Commander of the City Watch?"

Slynt blinked, startled by the question. "Lord Arryn, my prince," he stammered. "I was named commander by Jon Arryn himself, after the death of Manly Stokeworth."

"Jon Arryn was a good judge of character," Ned interjected, his voice calm, though he could feel the tension in the air shifting.

Boryn did not take his eyes off Slynt. "Yes, a good judge indeed." He glanced briefly at Ned, his face stoic still. "And I believe you to be as well, Lord Stark. You have capable men in your service. What do you think of Jory Cassel?"

"Jory is dutiful and fair," Ned replied, choosing his words carefully. "He has a strong sense of justice, and he leads my household guard well."

Boryn nodded. "Good. I think Jory would make an excellent Commander of the City Watch. What say you, Janos?"

Slynt's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. "Your grace, I... I beg you—"

"You are hereby relieved of your duties, effective immediately," Boryn said, his tone as cold as the northern wind. "Jory will take your place as Commander of the City Watch."

Slynt's face flushed crimson, his voice rising in protest. "You can't do this! I was appointed by Jon Arryn, and—"

Boryn's gaze turned to ice, the fury of the storm reflected in his eyes. "I act with the authority of the King. If you question me again, your head will be on a spike for all to see at the tourney."

Slynt fell silent, his lips quivering as the reality of his dismissal sank in. The room was still as a crypt.

Ned's hands clenched beneath the table. This was not the way of things, not how he would have handled it, but the crown Prince had spoken. Slynt, pale and trembling, was escorted from the chamber by two guards, his face a mask of humiliation and fear.

When the door shut behind him, the silence lingered for a moment longer.

Ned could feel the eyes of the council on him, waiting for his reaction. He cleared his throat, his voice low and measured. "My Prince, may I ask why you chose to relieve Janos of his duties?"

Boryn met his gaze with the cold certainty of a man born to command. "A Commander of the City Watch worth his salt would rally the men in his service, not come before the council begging for more. If Janos cannot control the streets, he is unfit for the position. Twenty good northern men led by Jory will do more to keep the peace than a thousand under Janos."

Ned frowned. "Jory does not know the city as well as Slynt does. It will take him time to learn the lay of the land."

"He will learn," Boryn replied, his voice firm. "And he will succeed. Let it be known that it was your assessment of him that lead to his appointment. I suspect he shall rise to the task with that knowledge in mind."

Ned nodded slowly, yet the unease in his chest did not abate.

Boryn was exercising his authority here, not only over Janos but over the entire council - and over Ned himself.

It was a clear message: failure would not be tolerated, and Boryn would not hesitate to show his power when he deemed it necessary.

Renly, seated further down the table, grinned. "Well said, nephew. I think we can all agree that a little fresh blood might do the City Watch some good."

Varys offered a thin smile. "How fortunate for the city, then, that we have such capable men to rely upon."

Littlefinger chuckled softly. "Yes, and I'm sure the coffers will be well-lined by the time the tourney is over. The gold is flowing in the brothels, my lords, and the whores are walking bowlegged."

Ned suppressed a scowl at Baelish's crudeness. "I'm sure the gold is flowing well," he said stiffly, rising to his feet. "Let us end this meeting. We have much to prepare for, and I expect the City Watch will be ready by the time of the tourney."

The others rose with him, all except for Pycelle, who struggled to his feet. The old man wheezed as he shuffled toward the door.

Ned waited until the others had filed out before turning to Grand Maester Pycelle. "Maester, a word."

Pycelle paused, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. "Yes, my lord?"

Ned gestured for the man to sit. "I wanted to ask you about Jon Arryn. His illness."

Pycelle's expression grew solemn, his bushy brows knitting together. "A sad matter, that. Lord Arryn was a good man, a loyal servant to the realm. His passing was... most unfortunate."

"Tell me about his sickness," Ned pressed. "It came on suddenly, did it not?"

Pycelle sighed, lowering himself into the chair with a groan. "Aye, it was sudden. One day he was hale and hearty, and the next... he was bedridden, too weak to stand. The fever took him quickly, burning through him like wildfire. We did all we could, but... in the end, the gods called him home."

Ned frowned, the unease gnawing at him once more. "Did Jon Arryn say anything in his final days? Anything that might explain what happened to him?"

Pycelle stroked his beard thoughtfully. "In his last days, Lord Arryn asked me to bring him a book. The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms."

"A strange request," Ned said, his brow furrowing. "Why would he ask for such a book?"

"I do not know, my lord," Pycelle admitted. "He was feverish, speaking in riddles. But he kept asking for it, over and over again. And in the end, his last words were... curious."

Ned leaned forward. "What were they?"

Pycelle met his eyes, his voice lowering to a whisper. "He said, 'The seed is strong.' Over and over, he repeated it. 'The seed is strong.'"

Ned sat back, the words hanging in the air between them. "The seed is strong."

A chill ran down his spine. Something was amiss here, something deeper than a mere sickness. He did not know what yet, but the pieces were beginning to fall into place.

"Thank you, Maester," Ned said, rising to his feet. "You have been most helpful."

Pycelle nodded, struggling to his feet once more. "Of course, Lord Stark. If there is anything else you need, you need only ask."

Ned watched as the old man shuffled out of the chamber, his mind racing. He would need to look into this further, but for now, he had more questions than answers.

Boryn

The halls of the Red Keep felt cold in the evening, the air heavy and damp. Boryn moved swiftly, his boots clicking against the stone floor, echoing faintly in the dim corridors. He could already hear the muffled laughter behind the heavy oak door that marked his father's chamber, the raucous sounds of revelry unmistakable.

Boryn's jaw tightened.

As he approached, the gleam of gold caught his eye. His uncle Jaime leaned against the wall near the door, his white Kingsguard cloak draped casually over his broad shoulders, one hand resting lazily on the hilt of his sword. His golden hair glimmered in the torchlight, and his smirk came as naturally as his arrogance.

"Your Grace," Jaime said in mock formality, dipping his head slightly as Boryn drew near. "Come to join your father in his nightly festivities?"

Boryn's eyes narrowed. "Is this what he has you do, uncle? Stand guard while he disgraces mother?"

Jaime's smirk deepened. "He takes great pleasure in making me listen," he said, his tone light but with a dark edge underneath. "Every laugh, every moan… another knife twisted. He thinks it's his way of breaking me." Jaime's green eyes flickered with something cold and dangerous. "But we Lannisters don't break easily."

"I can have you reassigned," Boryn said coldly, "closer to mother, if that suits you better."

Jaime chuckled, shaking his head, his golden hair catching the flickering light. "And let Robert think he's won? No, my dear nephew. I won't give him the satisfaction. If I leave this post, it'll be of my choosing, not because he pushed me away."

Boryn stared at his uncle for a long moment. He was many things - a skilled swordsman, sharp witted, and dangerous - but he could see now that the Kingslayer's pride was as deep as it was brittle. Boryn offered no further words and instead turned his attention back to the door, pushing it open.

As soon as the door cracked, the smell hit him - cheap perfume, wine, and sweat. He heard the scurrying of feet, and before he could even step inside, three women rushed past him, giggling, their hair wild and their clothes in disarray. One of them had the audacity to glance back at him and wink.

His blood boiled.

His father lay sprawled in the middle of the massive bed, his muscular frame sinking into the silken sheets, surrounded by more women. Three this time, all draped over him like exotic pets, feeding off the scraps of his favor. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over the king's form, his broad chest covered with a fine sheen of sweat, his mouth twisted into a careless grin.

Boryn didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Get out," he snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.

The women hesitated, glancing between each other and Robert, who seemed more amused than alarmed by his son's sudden entrance. One of the women giggled nervously, but when she saw Boryn's steely expression, the smile died on her lips.

"I said get out," Boryn repeated, his voice rising with a cold authority. "Or I'll have you dragged through the streets and whipped. Was that clear enough for you?"

Panic swept through them. They scrambled off the bed, grabbing what clothes they could as they fled, stumbling over each other in their haste to escape. One dropped a beaded bracelet in her rush, but she didn't dare turn back for it.

The door slammed shut once more, leaving only Boryn and his father in the now silent room. King Robert Baratheon sat up, his eyes narrowed, the lazy grin gone from his face, replaced by a simmering annoyance.

"On whose bloody authority do you barge into my chambers?" Robert roared, his voice booming like a thunderclap in the confined space. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed from the wine, but there was still fire in him, the same unyielding strength that had once conquered a kingdom.

Boryn met his father's gaze. "Yours."

The silence that followed was heavy, but Robert did not immediately reply. Instead, he sank back into the pillows, rubbing a hand over his face.

"What is it you want, boy?" Robert growled. "Is this about the debt again? I left that boring shit to the council for a reason. I even gave you the damn privilege of sitting in my chair so you could deal with it and leave me out of it."

Boryn didn't let the insult sting. He'd heard far worse from his father's mouth. "The crown is bleeding itself dry. The debt grows by the day, and you do nothing to stem it. You're the King—"

"And that's why I have a council," Robert interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "I didn't win this throne to sit on it and count coppers. I won it so I could drink, hunt, and fuck my way into an early grave. Let Ned and the others worry about the rest."

Boryn's hands clenched at his sides. His voice, when he spoke, was tight with barely restrained frustration. "You're squandering the kingdom, Father. It won't matter how many battles you won if there's nothing left to rule."

Robert scoffed, pushing himself out of the bed, his large frame moving with a surprising amount of grace for a man his size. He stood before Boryn, towering over him, though the years of indulgence had softened the hard muscle that had once won him a rebellion.

"Squandering? Bah. You sound like your mother. Always nagging, always telling me what I should be doing. Do you think this is easy, boy? Do you think wearing this crown is something you're ready for?"

Boryn's jaw tightened, his eyes never leaving his father's. "I'll be ready sooner than you think."

The words hung between them like a drawn sword. Robert's face twisted into a snarl, his eyes blazing with fury.

"You think you can bear this burden?!" Robert growled, stepping closer, his chest almost touching Boryn's.

"You've sat at that council table, but you've never had the weight of the whole realm on your shoulders. You've never had to make the choices I've made. I fought for this crown. I bled for it. And I'll not hand it over because you think you know better."

"If you hate being king so much," Boryn shot back, his voice rising to meet the challenge, "then abdicate. Let someone who cares about the realm sit upon the throne. Pass the crown to me."

Robert's fist clenched, his knuckles whitening. For a moment, Boryn thought he might strike him, the old warrior in his father rearing its head. But instead, Robert laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that filled the room.

"Abdicate? What kind of fool are you?" Robert sneered. "Never before has a King stepped down. The only way a king leaves the throne is when he's dead, boy. And I'm not dead yet."

"Maybe you should think on it," Boryn said coldly, his gaze unrelenting. "Before your next hunt. It might save you the trouble of dying in a boar's jaws."

Robert's eyes darkened, but he didn't respond immediately. Instead, he sank back onto the bed, suddenly looking older, more worn than Boryn had ever seen him.

"If you weren't my son I would have had your tongue cut out for that," Robert muttered, his voice low and ragged. "Out. I've had enough of your whining for one night."

Boryn didn't move for a long moment, his fists still clenched, his heart pounding in his chest. Finally, he turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Jaime was still at his post, his golden eyes glinting with amusement as Boryn passed him without a word.

Sansa

Sansa sat in the high stands, her heart fluttering with excitement. The Hand's tourney was everything she had ever dreamed of. The bright colors of the banners, the sparkle of armor, and the anticipation in the air - it was all like something out of a song.

She wore a gown of pale blue silk, her hair braided with ribbons of silver and white. The day was perfect, the sky clear and blue, and she was sitting next to Joffrey, the golden-haired lion.

But as the jousts progressed, Joffrey seemed distant, his sharp blue eyes scanning the field below with little interest. His face, so handsome in the warm light, was cool and composed.

Sansa bit her lip, wondering how to break the silence between them. Her mind scrambled for something to say, something that might make him look at her, talk to her as a true lady and lord should. She took a breath and leaned toward him, lowering her voice to something she hoped was sweet and pleasant.

"Where is Prince Boryn? I thought he'd be here to watch the tourney."

For a moment, Joffrey's lips twitched into something resembling a frown, but it quickly faded. "Why would you care about Boryn?" he asked, his tone dismissive. "He's off doing something dull, no doubt."

Sansa blinked, taken aback by the abruptness of his response. Boryn struck her as a man that would be interested in such affairs as a tourney. Sansa had imagined that the entire royal family would be present to witness the splendor of the day.

"I just thought…" she began hesitantly, but Joffrey cut her off.

"You think too much, Sansa," he said, turning his gaze back to the field. His voice softened then, as if realizing the sharpness in his words. "He's not important. The real excitement is about to begin."

Sansa nodded quickly, relieved that Joffrey didn't seem angry with her, though the sting of his earlier tone lingered. She followed his gaze to the jousting lists, where two knights were preparing for the next tilt. She recognized the hulking figure of Ser Gregor Clegane, known as the Mountain, on one side of the field, his black stallion pawing the ground restlessly.

Across from him, the knight in blue and silver armor was Ser Hugh of the Vale, a newcomer to the tourney circuit but well regarded for his skill.

"The Mountain," Joffrey said, his voice laced with admiration, "is my grandfather's bannerman. He does whatever Lord Tywin commands. No one can stand against him."

Sansa's eyes widened. She had heard stories of Ser Gregor's prowess in battle, though none of them had been the kind of tales she liked. The Mountain was a giant of a man, known for his cruelty.

His brother, Sandor, was Joffrey's personal sworn shield - the Hound. Sansa had always found the Hound frightening, with his burned face and grim manner, though he had never been anything but courteous toward her.

"And Sandor?" she asked cautiously. "He's your man too, isn't he?"

Joffrey nodded, his lips curving into a thin smile. "Yes, the Hound is loyal to me. He'll do anything I ask."

Sansa wasn't sure what to say to that. There was something unsettling about the way Joffrey spoke of the Cleganes, as if he relished their violent nature. But she pushed the thought away.

Down on the field, the trumpets blared, signaling the start of the joust. The crowd fell silent as the two knights readied themselves. Ser Gregor, in his blackened armor, looked as formidable as ever, a mountain of steel and muscle.

Ser Hugh, by contrast, was smaller, more agile. Sansa felt a flicker of worry for the young knight, though she didn't dare voice it.

"They'll meet in the center, and it will be over before you know it," Joffrey said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "The Mountain will crush him."

Sansa wasn't sure if Joffrey meant it literally, but she couldn't help the unease that crept into her stomach. Still, she kept her face composed, trying to mimic the poise of Queen Cersei, who sat further down the royal box. This was a game of appearances, after all, and Sansa knew how important it was to play her part.

The knights spurred their horses forward, and the crowd roared as the two charged at each other. Sansa's heart raced as their lances lowered, the thunder of hooves pounding in her ears.

The Mountain's lance struck Ser Hugh square in the chest, sending him flying from his saddle. But something was wrong - Ser Hugh's lance splintered as it hit Gregor's shield, and a shard of wood broke off with a sickening crack.

Sansa gasped as the jagged splinter shot into Ser Hugh's neck, embedding itself deep into his flesh. The young knight crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from the wound, staining the bright blue and silver of his armor. He convulsed once, then lay still, his face ashen beneath his visor.

The crowd erupted into chaos, shouts and gasps echoing through the stands. Sansa's hands flew to her mouth in horror, her stomach turning at the sight of the blood pooling around Ser Hugh's body.

This was not how it was supposed to be. Knights were meant to be noble, to fight with honor. This - this was wrong.

She looked to Joffrey, hoping for some reassurance, but his expression made her stomach twist even more. He was smiling a cold, cruel smile that sent a chill down her spine.

"Did you see that?" Joffrey said, his voice filled with delight. "The way the blood spurted out… it was perfect."

Sansa felt her throat close up, her breath catching. She wanted to turn away, to look anywhere but at Joffrey's face, but she forced herself to stay still.

If this was what Joffrey liked, then she would try her hardest to accept it. At least he paid attention to her. Boryn was her betrothed and he still hadn't paid her a visit. She wished that he would at least tell her why he deemed her unworthy of him.

Slowly, she nodded, her voice trembling as she tried to speak. "Yes… it was…" She swallowed hard, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "It was… thrilling."

Joffrey's smile widened, and for a moment, Sansa felt a flicker of relief. He was pleased with her response. But the horror of what she had just said lingered, a weight pressing down on her chest. How could she find joy in such a gruesome sight? How could anyone?

But Joffrey was looking at her now, really looking at her, and she knew she couldn't afford to falter. She had to be strong, had to show him that she could be as fierce and unflinching as the knights in the tourney.

"The Mountain is unstoppable," Joffrey continued, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "No one can stand against him."

Sansa nodded again, though the image of Ser Hugh's body lying lifeless on the ground was burned into her mind. She wanted to be brave, to be everything Joffrey wanted her to be, but the sight of the blood, the way the life had drained from the knight in an instant - it haunted her.

"He died so quickly," she whispered, almost to herself. "He didn't even have a chance…"

Joffrey shrugged, as if it didn't matter at all. "That's how it is in battle. If you're weak, you die."

Sansa looked down at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap. She had always thought of knights as noble and honorable, fighting for glory and honor. But here, in the tourney, it seemed like all that mattered was power and strength. Joffrey didn't care about honor, didn't care about the lives lost on the field. He only cared about the spectacle, the blood, the violence.

She thought of Boryn and how he had struck Joffrey on the Kingsroad. His eyes were scary, fierce as any storm, yet afterward he seemed regretful for losing control. He offered to be the one to whip Micah as well knowing that Joffrey would revel in it.

Confusion veiled her thoughts now - the favor of a beast was indeed unpleasant.

Catelyn

Rain lashed at the wooden shutters, making them rattle, but inside the common room was filled with warmth, the thick smell of roasting meat, and the murmur of low voices.

Catelyn sat in the shadowed corner near the hearth, her hood pulled low over her brow. She'd hoped the flickering firelight would hide her face, but her heart raced nonetheless.

Every creak of the floorboards, every scrape of a chair, every laugh that rose over the din made her grip her mug a little tighter.

She had slipped away from Winterfell unnoticed, taking only Ser Rodrik with her, leaving behind the castle, her sons, and her broken boy. Bran.

She closed her eyes and saw him again, lying pale and motionless in his bed, his breathing shallow and weak.

The dagger, silver and sharp, had been meant for his heart. Her heart burned at the thought, a molten rage that had carried her south for answers.

Now she knew the truth of it all.

The fire crackled, and she took a sip from her mug, more for something to do with her hands than from any desire for drink. Ser Rodrik was across the room, nursing a cup of his own, his eyes sharp beneath his bushy white brows.

This far from the safety of Winterfell, there were no allies she could trust, save those who had ridden with her father's banner. But they were few and scattered.

Suddenly, the door to the inn burst open, letting in a gust of cold wind and rain. Catelyn glanced up beneath her hood, her fingers tightening on her mug. A man stepped inside, shaking off the wet, a familiar sight despite his rough cloak. Short, with mismatched eyes, sharp as a raven's gaze.

Tyrion Lannister.

Her heart leapt to her throat.

She shrank deeper into her hood, her mind racing. She'd heard he had arrived at Winterfell, returning from his journey at The Wall.

He had stood at her son's bedside once before, looking down at Bran with an unreadable expression. She had said nothing at the time, her grief too raw, her mind too clouded with fear and worry.

But now, her suspicions flared anew.

Tyrion stood by the door for a moment, brushing the water from his cloak. He spoke a few words to the innkeeper's daughter, and she nodded, hurrying off to fetch him something to drink. Catelyn kept her eyes on him, her pulse quickening. Her mind spun in a thousand directions at once.

Could he truly had a hand in the attack on Bran?

Tyrion turned his head, scanning the room. His eyes passed over her, then froze. A flicker of recognition sparked in his mismatched gaze.

Catelyn felt her stomach twist.

He knows.

For a moment, she thought of slipping out, of retreating before he could speak. But no. She was a Stark of Winterfell, and her son lay in a bed because of this man - or so she was beginning to believe. She would not run from him. She would confront him, here and now.

Tyrion made his way toward her table, swaggering with an amused gaze. He smiled as he approached, though the expression didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Lady Stark," he said, inclining his head in a mocking sort of bow. "What a pleasant surprise. Seems I must have just missed your departure from Winterfell."

His words were honeyed, but Catelyn heard the underlying note of slyness, the sharp edge hidden in the softness. She pushed back her hood and rose from her seat. The room seemed to hush around her, the sound of voices fading as men turned their heads to see what was happening.

"You have sharp eyes, my lord," she said, her voice steady though her heart pounded in her chest. "Though not sharp enough, it seems. You didn't expect to see me here, did you?"

Tyrion's smile widened, though there was a flicker of wariness in his gaze. "I didn't," he admitted, folding his hands before him. "But then, the world is full of little surprises. What brings you to this humble inn?"

Catelyn felt the weight of the dagger in her memory, cold and deadly. Her father's men were scattered in the crowd, sworn bannermen of House Tully, men she had trusted all her life.

"You stopped by King's Landing from The Wall" she said, keeping her voice low. "Tell me, why did you go back to Winterfell?"

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "I merely wished to enjoy the hospitality of the Starks. My reception was quite cold however. Surely you aren't suggesting anything more sinister than that, my lady?"

Her blood boiled at his mockery. "You came to Winterfell, and you stood at my son's bedside once, and then you returned to visit once more."

Tyrion's face darkened, the smile slipping away. "Ah, so it's like that, is it? You're looking for someone to blame for your boy's fall, and you've set your sights on me." He shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips. "I'd have thought you were smarter than that, Lady Stark. Do you truly think I would stoop to harming a child?"

Catelyn took a step closer, her hands trembling with the force of her fury.

"A child, you say? Bran is not just any child. He is my son. He was pushed from a tower, left to die, and when that failed, someone came to finish the job. And now here you are, in the midst of it all."

Tyrion's lips tightened, and for the first time, she saw something behind his eyes - anger, perhaps. Or fear. It was hard to tell with the imp. "If I wanted your boy dead, Lady Stark, he would be dead. But I didn't push him from that tower, and I certainly didn't send anyone to kill him."

Her grip on the mug tightened until her knuckles turned white. She had to act now. She could not let him slip through her fingers. The truth of his guilt or innocence would come later, but for now, she needed to bring him to justice - or at least put him somewhere where she could keep him.

She took a breath and turned to the room, her voice rising as she called out, "Men of the Riverlands, bannermen of House Tully, hear me!"

The room erupted in a clatter of chairs and boots as men turned to face her. There were six of them, rough but loyal, their faces hardened from warfare. She saw Ser Rodrik rise from his seat, his hand on his sword, ready to act on her command.

"I name you all witnesses," Catelyn continued, her voice steady now, filled with the authority of her house. "In the name of my father, Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun, I call upon you to seize this man, Tyrion Lannister."