- The Red Keep -

Eddard Stark moved like a shadow through the twisting streets of King's Landing, his hand never straying far from the hilt of Ice's smaller cousin, his sword. Petyr Baelish led the way, his every step betraying a familiarity with the city's dark veins and hidden arteries. The sly curl of his lips as he glanced back at Stark would have been unremarkable were it not for the venom dripping from his every word.

"Your lady wife is here, my lord," Baelish said, his tone soft, serpentine. "Hiding in plain sight. Though I suspect even the sharp eyes of Winterfell would find no trace of her without my guidance."

Eddard bristled at the suggestion, his honor gnawed at by the mere notion. His wife, here in this pit of a city? It was a jest most cruel. Catelyn was north, safe and strong, tending to their children and the cold halls of Winterfell. She had to be. And yet, the Master of Coin had led him here, through streets littered with refuse and whispers.

The investigation into Jon Arryn's death had consumed him, the quiet unraveling of threads that refused to weave a coherent tale. Grand Maester Pycelle's half-truths had yielded naught but a scattering of fragments—of a sickness sudden and fierce, of whispered words on a deathbed. Answers eluded him, always a step ahead, just beyond the reach of his honor-bound grasp.

Ahead, the air thickened with the cloying perfume of sin. Lanterns swung above the doorways of establishments where men spent coin to buy fleeting solace. Baelish paused, gesturing to one such den of iniquity, a smirk curling his lips like a blade ready to strike.

"One of my finer establishments," he said with a chuckle that grated on Eddard's ears. "I thought she would be safe here. A pearl among… lesser treasures."

The jape was too much. In one furious motion, Eddard's hand shot out, seizing Baelish by the throat and slamming him against the damp stone wall of an alley. The northern lord's breath came in seething gasps, his rage burning hotter than the forges of Winterfell.

"Brandon should have ended you!" Eddard's voice was low, but it carried the weight of an ancestral storm. His grip tightened, and for a moment, he felt the fragile life of the man he held teetering in his hands.

"Lord, let him go!" The voice cut through his fury like the cry of a direwolf in the night. He froze. It was her voice.

His head turned slowly, almost unwillingly. And there she stood, cloaked and shadowed but unmistakable. Catelyn. His words died on his tongue, and his grip faltered. Baelish slid from his grasp, crumpling to the ground in a coughing heap.

Eddard's boots echoed hollowly against the floorboards as he strode into the building, past a stunned Catelyn and a smirking Baelish. He was no longer sure if the chill he felt was from the city's dampness or the ice that had begun to creep into his heart.

Eddard Stark stepped forward, the tension of the past weeks melting as he finally took his wife into his arms. Catelyn Stark was a steadfast woman, her presence a balm to his frayed nerves, but the question boiled in his chest.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was rough, tinged with disbelief and the lingering edge of his rage.

Catelyn pulled back, her hands lingering on his arms. She met his gaze with the quiet strength that had always anchored him. "I came because I had to, my love. There are truths that must be uncovered—and dangers I could not ignore."

He frowned deeply, his anger threatening to resurface. Lady, Nymeria, Summer—all gone, their lives stolen by treachery. Hearing of their deaths is no doubt going to haunt him, along with the bloodied remains of the loyal men he had sent to escort his wife and daughters back to Winterfell.

The injustice of it all set his blood ablaze.

"The wolves…" His voice dropped to a cold whisper. "The Queen wears a cloak of wolf pelts as though it were some trivial gift. I thought they were nothing more than animals from the Kingswood, but now... now I see the truth."

Catelyn placed a calming hand on his chest. "Eddard, listen to me. I have asked Petyr for his aid. He will help you uncover the truth of Jon Arryn's death."

Eddard's eyes narrowed as they shifted to Petyr Baelish, who stood a few paces away. The Master of Coin gave them an exaggerated bow, his hand pressed theatrically to his heart. "Ah, my dear Cat. Your trust warms my soul. Yes, I stand ready to assist your husband, though…" A smile crept across his face, sharp as a dagger. "I must warn that accusing the Queen or her family of such treachery without proof would be… shall we say, unwise?"

"My sister believes it," Catelyn interjected, her voice firm. "Lysa wrote to me that Jon was hale and healthy before his sudden passing."

Baelish straightened, his smile softening into a semblance of sincerity. "Catelyn, you and your sister are like family to me, dearer than most. But grief can cloud judgment, and your sister's words, while heartfelt, are not evidence. Proof—hard, undeniable proof—is what you need. And proof," his gaze flicked back to Eddard, "is what I shall help you find. In whatever small way I can."

He turned toward Eddard, bowing slightly. "At your service, Lord Hand."

Eddard's jaw clenched as he studied the man before him. The weight of the North rested on his shoulders, and he could not afford to be swayed by honeyed words or false allies. Yet he knew that every hand extended in King's Landing came with a hidden blade. His wife's faith in Baelish was a bitter pill, but he could not ignore it entirely.

For now, he would tread carefully. The game was set, and every move mattered.

An hour later, Eddard Stark stood with his wife, their fingers intertwined as though to defy the inevitability of parting. The air between them was heavy, not with words left unsaid but with the weight of all that had been spoken. Catelyn's grip was steadfast, though her eyes betrayed her sorrow.

"I wanted to see the girls and Bran," she murmured, her voice scarcely rising above the gentle breeze. There was a longing there, a mother's ache. And he, too, wished for nothing more than to hold his children close, to reassure them with his presence. But the thought of bringing them to this viper's nest of a city struck him like a blade.

"It is too dangerous," he said finally, his voice a low rumble. He hesitated, then added, "But I will send them your love and care. Should I tell them of… their wolves?" His voice faltered as he spoke of the creatures, his mind flashing to pelts draped across royal shoulders.

"No," she replied quickly, shaking her head. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked away. "It would break their hearts."

He nodded solemnly, a man of ice holding back the tide of fire that simmered in his veins. "I will send word of my findings," he promised.

Catelyn met his gaze, her expression firm once more. With a single nod, she turned and mounted her horse, her posture regal despite the weight she carried. Ser Rodrik stood nearby, his hand on the hilt of his blade as he prepared to accompany her along the Kingsroad. But Eddard wasn't ready to let her go—not just yet.

He stepped forward and placed a hand on the reins. "One more thing. I want the Moat fortified. Tell Lord Glover to see it done."

"I will, my love," she said, her voice softer now. She leaned down, her fingers brushing against his one last time. "And you—be safe."

As she rode off into the night, the rhythmic clatter of hooves fading into the distance, Eddard stood rooted to the spot. The chill of the air seeped into his bones, but it was not the cold that troubled him. In King's Landing, danger wore many faces, and he knew he would need more than northern resolve to face what lay ahead.