EDDARD VII

"Eddard sat on his wooden chair in his solar, deep in quiet thought and ear-deafening doubts.

It had been three days now since the attack on the banquet, but still no poisoner had been found. He blamed himself, just as harshly as any other man in his kingdoms would have blamed him. Any father for his daughter, any parent for their children. He was meant to be the father of the whole realm, but he could not even protect his own dinner hall from the chaos of death and destruction which threatened to tear it all apart.

Wynafryda, Sansa's friend and Wylis Manderly's daughter, had been a sweet girl, and a good friend to Sansa, if a little triflesome. She had not deserved what had come to her, he thought, his heart filled with ice and a heavy cloud of grief, though Ned was all but sure that she had not been the designated victim for the poison, either. It was clearly meant for someone else.

For himself, or for his new master of Whispers, Tyrion Lannister, given that the banquet was in his honour, or perhaps even for the Imp's lord father. But instead, the curiosity of youth had led the poor girl to her death in the stead of either of them.

She had apparently snuck in for some wine just a half hour or so before the dinner commenced, and one of the kitchen boys, Prettyn, had let her in.

Porkeyn Dustin had told him all of it, along with his son Roderick and daughter Fanny, who had both been present at the dinner, sitting to the side close by Robb, Lord Wylis and many westerland lords. They had seen all of it during the dinner, the same as he had, though perhaps their young eyes, as well as the training they had gotten from their falcon-sighted father all of their lives had made them see something he had not.

He had been busy, of course, making toasts and speaking to his Hand, and the Swyfts, Lord Tywin's brother Kevan and his wife, and making sure that everything went along smoothly with the serving of the courses. But a king's first and foremost duty to his subjects was always and ever to do his best to protect them from harm. He had failed.

Lord Porkeyn and his eldest two had spoken to him for hours, as they all searched through the castle, going to every floor with aching hearts to look for any clues, any sign of the poisoner or who might have done such a thing. They had found much, of course, as things of great and small concern were always going on in The Red Keep, but nothing conclusive that proved anything.

The Lannisters blamed the Dornish. That much had been clear even before the last drops of the red wine had reached the floor, Ned thought. Anything else would have been strange. The wine was Dornish, after all, and Quentyn had just gotten accompanied by some new squires from Yronwood castle not a fortnight past, to keep him company away from his father's home.

It was not the first time that Prince Doran had sent up some maester or servant to keep extra watch over his oldest son, but this time might be different. Among the company were two young fighers, Gerris Drinkwater and Archibald Yronwood, called Drink and Arch. They did not seem as harmless, or as indifferent to the westermen, as the last [consorts/guests[ ] had been. He had had half a mind to take their weapons from them the very first day they arrived, but Ser Aron had deemed it less troubling than that. Ned's suspicions had not went away, though, not after seeing what the great Yronwood knight could do in the courtyard. Even the lankier one, Drink, was still strong enough to put up a great fight, and so he had simply waited for them to come in some sort of fight with one of Lord Tywin's many bannermen who still lingered on like red roosters, strutting about with their swords all over in the city, to his great discomfort.

Any suspicions that Prince Quentyn's new companions had been to blame had quickly disappeared when the one called Gerris Drinkwater had become the second young body to hit the floor, however.

The big one, Arch, had slapped and pounded on his smaller friend's back furiously, all the while shouting for him to retch it all up, to stand. But it had been to no avail. The young lad had made the difference to his name, and drunk at least four cups of wine instead of water, Ned judged.

That had been Dorne. And as he saw and heard later, old Lord Andros Brax, Lord Tytos' and Ser Flement Brax's father, had been among the ones poisoned as well. He had drunk at least three or four cups, from what those close to him had said. The poison in the wine must have been too much for his old heart. The same had gone for his second son, Robert, who had apparently poured down at least five cups of the red Dornish wine before the first sign of any error. Five dead, then, in total.

By some miracle, the ever in ill health Lord Gyles Rosby had survived, having only had a single cup of the wine, though he'd been abed close to death for three days straight, before finally rising to his feet again, coughing as loudly as ever.

And so there, with old Lord Brax and his son, was also the Westerlands. Both the Lannisters and the Martells would have reason to mistrust one another after this, and yet the fact that both sides had lost one among their own in the attempt spoke against either of them having been involved in the evil scheme.

...

At any rate, those thoughts had been the furthest away from Ned's mind at the moment, as he saw the boy Gerris "Drink" Drinkwater trying to cough up the red liquid, the big knight Arch slapping him on his back with huge woodcutter's hands.

He could not get it all up within time, and so the life had been greaned from him a short while thereafter, while Ned had been preoccupied with his own flesh and blood.

Sansa. He thanked all the gods that she was alive, and unhurt. Well, perhaps not entirely unhurt, but that she at least had been spared the fate that came for her older friend. She had fainted, of course, and he had rushed up to hold her, to try and help her, if he at all could. It did not help that the septa was also clutching the red rushes on the floor, and he himself had felt the vomit coming on inside his throat for a third time.

She was pale, oh so pale, but then again she was her mother's daughter. He had taken her up, held her, shook her, called out her name as loud as he could, and slapped her as hard as he dared on her back, before she finally came to and looked up at him.

"Sansa!" He had called.

"Father... I'm not... I'm not...-"

"You're all right, love. Come on now", he had said, as he began carrying her atop his own back, making sure her mouth was pointed down so that she could throw up more if she had to, while simultaneously calling for Ser Balon and Ser Barristan to come with him, and then he had run over, just as fast, to Arya and Robb.

His Hand, and the future of the kingdoms, was an eternity away from Ned's mind in those moments. Lord Tywin could have seized the entire realm, the entire castle, if he had had the mind and heart to do so. Ned cared only for his children, for his family and blood, in those brief breaths of chaos and motley red death all around them. Perhaps that was when he realized he should not wear the crown.

Arya had been fine. She did not like wine at all, but she was shocked nonetheless, as any young girl would be. He could see tears in her eyes, as she and little Haelda looked around them, and yet tried not to look.

"Arya!" He had called, with Sansa still flung across his back, Ser Balon rushing forth to his other daughter to make sure she was all right.

"ARYA!" He screamed, to cancel out the noise of half a hundred other fathers and mothers crying out for their children, and children crying out for their parents and brothers and sisters, all around.

"SANSA!" Arya had yelped, then, as she flew up onto the table, her unwieldy dress and all, quick as a weasel, to get a look of her sister and see if she was alive.

"She is alive!" He had assured her. "She will wake soon." She was already awake, though coughing and fainting to and fro, though Arya could not know that. His dark-haired daughter had ran up to clutch him into an embrace, as he kissed the top of her head with his beard, that was still frusted and smogged with his own outwretchings. Arya did not care. She only cared that they lived.

Lady Helaena came up to grab her daughter, hugging Haelda tightly as Lord Triston coughed and struggled up to his feet from close beside.

"Is she all right?" Ned had time to ask, in a single brief moment for the concern of Arya's friend, but he did not wait for a reply before turning to his son. Robb. My boy. My firstborn of my blood. Please, you old and new gods, by all that is good...

He breathed a sigh of relief, deep inside his Northern heart, as he saw that his eldest stood unhurt.

"Father!" Robb called, though he could not hear what he said just after that, as another shout of terrified screaming went up behind them, in the rest of the red room.

"Hold on!" He said, as he put Sansa down in front of him, and cautioned Arya to make room for her sister.

He slung her up onto the table, cramming down plates of roast quail and leeks to slammer on the floor beside them, as he saw Lord Brax still coughing in fits of red blood, splatter and green phlegm mere inches away from his daughter's auburn hair and pale brow.

"Sansa, are you with me?" He asked, as his eldest girl gave an inaudible murmur as a reply. He turned her over again, slapped her on the back, a little more mildly this time. She puked up. And then she puked up again.

It was only a little, but enough for his immediate concerns to still themselves for the short while.

"Father, I didn't-... I only had...-" She managed.

"I know", he said. "I know, sweet child."

Sansa would never have more than two cups of wine, perhaps three, in a whole night. That was all that he allowed them, and his oldest daughter was ever obedient to it. He was glad for that now.

"What happened?" She said. "Father, is...- Is Wynafryda...-"

"She died", Arya said.

"ARYA!" He'd roared at her then, forgetting all manners of self, feeling as a wolf hurling at his cub like the roar of winter in the moment.

"But she did! Everyone's dying!" Arya said. "They're posioned! We have to go."

She was right in that, he supposed. With another look up, to see if Ser Balon and Selmy had come to their rescue, he gave a hurried nod to them, to accompany all of his children out.

Robb came walking himself, of course, along with Gerion and some others, hurring, though Quentyn stayed on with his dying friends. Mugs of ale, the death of the red wine, falling clanks of plates, the coughing up of blood and terrified screams rose up all around them, as they made their hasty way out, knocking people out of the way as swiftly as they could without drawing swords.

"MAKE WAY FOR THE KING!" Ser Balon roared, and Ser Barristan said the same.

He had rounded the entire room now, going first to Sansa by the southern back, then to the western row of tables where Arya and Haelda sat, and then up northwest to Robb and his friend, and was now on his way back, as they all were, to the dais where the Imp still stood close by to his tall chair, holding a small crooked hand on the leg of the elaborence.

"My lord!" He only had time to call out, so as not to kick the little dwarf with his boots as he came a-thundering like a storm of winter to the side of him.

The little Lord Tyrion looked up to them, in a shocked moment, his squashed face portraying an emotion of genuine fear, before moving his hand up to the edge of the great table instead, holding on for dear life as one of his private guards moved in with his own shield to cover his tiny master from the ruckus.

"Where is Lord Tywin?" He called, just before they would be out of earshot.

Tyrion merely gave a point out to the hallway, where they would soon be.

"MAKE WAY FOR THE KING! MAKE WAY FOR HIS GRACE!" Ser Balon called again, as he drew up his sword, finally, and pushed through the roaring mass of blue swyft roosters, brindled boars and checkered stag sigils. Buckwell, Ned had time to think, but the man was standing at least.

"MAKE WAAAAAAYYYY!" Ser Balon roared one final time, as they pushed out through the massive wooden doors and out into the hallway, where the air was fresh and clean.

There he was, Ned thought, as he lemped off his two daughters in front of him, doing his best to try and hold them in his arms, to see that they were all right, while speaking to the Lord of the Rock.

"What is the meaning of this?" He shouted out, incredulously.

"We are having the castle searched", Lord Tywin explained, as calmly as only a demon could be in the face of such terror, before shouting out orders to yet another two or three guards who came running from the corridor of the galleries to the side.

"To the kitchens!" Lord Tywin demanded, before giving a look back to his king, if that was still indeed what he was to him, and then they were all off down. Ned had to hinder himself from shouting out yet another time, but he thought of the children next. He barely cared what befell of the castle, not any more. Porkeyn would see to it. He thought only of the children, that they were safe.

"Get them outside to the balconies so they can breathe!" He commanded Ser Balon and the Lord Commander.

"Yes, Your Grace!" They said, taking Arya and Sansa by the arm while the latter gave a plea in her eyes to her father.

Please Father, he sensed her saying. Don't leave us. Come with, out to the balconies.

It's all right, love. You go now. I'll stay here and hold watch. Ser Balon will help you.

She liked Ser Balon Swann, he knew, and she trusted him, but not as much as she liked Arys Oakheart. He was her favorite out of all of them, but he was still in the White Sword Tower, barring any unforeseen poisoning of that floor as well. Arya's favorite was Jory, since he let her get away with all of her wild wolvery and running about. Robb's favorite would be Barristan, he thought. The old legendary knight was his eldest son's biggest hero, and with great reason. Even Robert had seen that. Where was he now?

...

He shook himself from his thoughts of the Kingsguard, as he returned to the present. He had come with Lord Tywin, after all, a short while later, and even Tyrion had joined them, as the broad column of household guards swept the stairways all the way down to the kitchens on the first floors by the cellars, scouring and taking for questioning any and all servants they came upon in their path.

They searched through the kitchens, as well as the adjoining small wine cellar. There was a larger one as well, one floor down, in the true cellars, close to the dragon skulls and all else, but this was where the poisoned wine barrel of the feast had come from.

The cook, Mangyle, and the wine master, Solemon, promised on all the seven that they had not known about it. Though they and some few of the kitchen servants did admit to having seen the lady Wynafryda sneaking in to take a cup or two of wine in the hour just before the commencement of the dinner. The kitchen boy, Prettyn, had helped her to sneak in. Now he was laying dead, sprawled on the floor with a red pool of blood and wine next to him. If he had still lived, he would have been whipped bloody by Mangyle himself for the [crime/offense[ , Ned knew. Perhaps Ned should have had the old fat Mangyle whipped as well. The man would take it well, if he had to. The Red Keep's head cook had a neck like an oak tree, a belly like a barrel, and arms thick like tree trunks. He did not necessarily want to punish any of them, but he would need to do something for what terrible thing that had been allowed to happened.

Before he could say the words, however, Tywin had came forth and roared his discontent at the man. He gave him immediate discharge, and to have him sent to the dungeons for questioning later. Ned waved off the order, but decided that it was right to have the man responsible held accountable for his dangerous negligence. He commanded Mangyle the cook to be stripped of his post and held prisoner, though in the upper cells, who were the most comfortable. He gave same order for the wine master.

He did not wish to punish them. They were both good men, in truth, especially Mangyle, who had been at the castle for ten years, and up until this moment, his biggest crime had been sneaking Sansa or Jeyne Poole some extra lemoncakes or strawberry tarts as they passed by the kitchens on occasion.

But he needed to do something, to act, for poor Wynafryda's sake. They were ultimately responsible for anything that went on in their kitchens, and the wine had been expressly forbidden for consumption until the wedding feast, as always. So he had made the order, to his Hand's firm approval. Until we can figure out what to make of all of this... Seven help us. Father, bring us justice. Crone, grant us wisdom.

He did not usually pray to the Seven, despite all his years down south, but in this, he thought, the Seven of the Andals might do him better service. The old gods had sway in the godswood, perhaps, but not in the castle. Not much, at any rate.

And Cat would have prayed to them for the protection of the children, he knew. Jon Arryn as well. How he wished that either of them could return to him now, to be by his side when he needed it most.

...

He thought back to their stay at Lord Harroway's Town, when Joffrey and Arya had fought. No, he thought, suddenly. They had not fought.

It was Arya and Mycah, the butcher's boy, who had been playfighting with wooden swords or sticks, and then Joffrey had come in and bared his live steel at them. At Arya.

He shuddered inside his spine. How could he have been so blind as to not protect her better from the Lannister boy? He should have seen it coming. But Sansa had wanted to walk with her newfound admirer, and the golden-haired Joffrey had seemed all so gallant and sweet to her child-like heart. Bless her, he thought, but give her the sight to see him for what he truly is.

He thought that she had now. Ever since he had been practicing target shooting on the pigeons in the courtyard, and all the other things... If Cat had still been here, she would not have lost her judgement so hard.

His lady wife did not approve of the Lannisters any more than he did, he knew. Would that she returned to them all soon. She would know what to do better than he could. Perhaps he should have listened to her all the way back at Harrenhal, when she had spoken against the naming of Tywin Lannister, and chosen her uncle the Blackfish instead. He sighed, and shook his head, and felt ashamed for all his faults that he had made.

Arya, most of all... Joff had attacked the princess. His judgement towards the boy had been weak, and not enough. He saw that now. Give a lion a little bit of a finger, and he will eat your whole hand...

And now Lord Wylis was beside himself with grief and anger, which any man could understand. He demanded that the post for Master of Whispers be stripped from the Imp and given over to his father, Lord Wyman at White Harbor, instead. He was more than certain that the Lannisters were to blame, in one way or another, for his daughter's death. There was no love lost between the merman of the North and the Lion of the West, it seemed. Ned had underestimated the hatred and suspicion that still ran between all of his subjects, even now, fourteen years into his mostly peaceful reign.

Ned had tried to speak to his Master of Ships, to reason with him, but he knew that now was not the time. Instead, he had offered to go with him personally and pray at the castle sept, and at the Great Sept of Baelor, for Wynafryda. Lord Wylis had accepted, and so they had both gone, and accompanied by his cousin, Ser Merlon Manderly of the Kingsguard. At least we can share our grief, Ned thought as they stood vigil over the face of the Maiden's sculpture in the vast green and marble hall.

There was at least one good piece of news to be had, he thought. Baelish had arrived at his destination, first at the Bloody Gate, and then now up at the Eyrie as well, safe and hale, thanks to the honour guard of some forty men he had sent with him. He wrote that Lysa was taking to his presence there well, and that he would soon be able to begin the process of convincing her to come back into the king's fold again, and to see over the Vale's suddenly higher taxes on barley and wheat, and other important matters.

Ned supposed that he was grateful for Littlefinger's help. As the old childhood friend to both Tully sisters, he would surely be among the people best suited to try and fill the great hole that Jon had left after his death. Perhaps he could soothe Lysa's mind and fretting heart a little bit, at least.

He could also become important for the boy as well, Ned thought, as an uncle or father figure. Young boys sorely needed strong men in their presence if they were to grow up to strong men themselves, he knew.

Suddenly the door was opened, and one of the servant boys came in, carrying a message.

"Your Grace, the Grand Maester wishes to speak with you", the boy said.

"Is it urgent? Is it about the poisoned wine?" Ned asked, stirring up in his mind for a moment.

"No, Your Grace. I don't believe so. Standard matters and preparations for the coming fortnight, as usual, the Grand Maester said."

"Is it that time already? … Very well. Tell him to wait if he can. I will have time to meet him in a little less than an hour."

"Yes, Your Grace."

The boy bowed, and went out again with the message for Pycelle.

Ned sighed, and put his head and brow into his hands yet again, feeling the sweat dripping off from his brow and hair. He had it pulled back today, as he often did, but still it was beading in drops on his forehead. Autumn is soon here, he had to remind himself. I will consider this a blessing soon enough.

He looked forward at his great wooden desk, to the tankard of ale which stood there, teasing him. He might have swept it down a couple of days ago, but not any more. Not for a good while. He could not allow himself to taste strong drink so lightly after what had happened.

He leaned forward, grabbed ahold of the tankard and went slowly, on tired steps, all the way up to the tall glass windows to empty it down in the courtyard below.

As he opened the windows to cast out the ale from the tankard, he saw the golden blonde locks of Joffrey down in the courtyard, shooting his crossbow at some innocent grey pigeons yet again.

This will be the last bloody time... Ned thought, with an icy resolve.

"Martyn!" He called, out to the hallway outside.

He only had to wait for a few short moments before his servant, and the most eager message-bearer of the castle, came in at his service.

"Your Grace." Martyn bowed.

"Go down into the courtyard and tell Ser Aron to confiscate that crossbow from young lord Joffrey. Lock it into the armory, until further orders. He shall not make use of it here again."

"Yes, Your Grace. At once, Your Grace."

"And have them stop their practicing for the day. On the morrow, they shall train only with blunted practice swords. No live steel again, until I command it. Not for any of them."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Martyn hurried out with the message, as Ned stood still at the window, staring down at the Lannister boy, allowing himself to feel the heat of a red and deep rage inside of his body for once.

The first time he had seen the Lannister boy with the crossbow, he had let it slide. Robb himself would shoot pigeons from time to time, but at a longer range, outside the castle walls, with a bow and arrow, not a craven's weapon. A crossbow might serve a man well if he lacks the strenght to hold a bow long enough, but it was not a noble thing to wield. It was not noble to kill so lightly, and without skill. But he had let it slide, if not for anything else, then for it being the first time, and for Lord Tywin having just settled in to the keep. He did not want any further unnecessary conflicts after what had already happened on the Kingsroad.

The second time, he had heard about it some three hours afterwards, when it was close to night after he had been at council all day. Sansa was crying still, when she came to think of it. There had been at least a half-dozen dead birds, as well as a hare, laying dead and bloody on the courtyard ground when she had tried going out with her ladies for her daily walk, and for some swallor in the heat. That time, he had again said nothing, and only comforted his daughter over the incident, promising he would try and get him to stop the next time he could.

The third time, a mere ten or some fourteen days past now perhaps, it had happened when he had been at Dragonstone to make Prince Viserys come to heel. He had lectured one young southron lordling, and seemingly forgotten about the other as he did so.

But this time, this would be the last. He was decided.

He saw how his messenger came out onto the courtyard, dressed in his regular brown and red velvets, to go forth and state the message from the king to Ser Aron Santagar.

The master-at-arms gave a dutiful nod, thanked him for the message and then turned to walk with swift yet decidedly stony steps all the way over to the great empty space of the courtyard where Joffrey was just now aiming his weapon at yet another small flock of birds, nesting on top of some wooden crates.

Ned could almost try and make out the words for a moment, he thought, but then the slight wind shifted, became stronger, and blocked out his hearing from the five or more flights down.

Ser Aron spoke in a hard tone to him at first, and then immediately bent forward, grabbing ahold of the crossbow without hurting the boy. Joffrey was upset, of course, shaking his arms and shouting out in anger that his lord father would hear about it. He was still under the delusion that such a father was Lord Tywin himself, and not the younger brother to him, one Gerion, who'd conveniently sailed off to Valyria some ten years back to retrieve a valyrian steel sword.

But Ned would let them believe whatever they wanted, as long as his Hand could keep a hold of his new blood-thirsty young heir. He vowed once again inside his heart to never marry the unlikeable boy off to Sansa, only if she herself would want it desperately, a scenario which had seemed for the most part unthinkable for the past two moons now at least. The charms of the new had waned, the boy had shown his worst sides, and she was once again in love with her sweet Knight of Flowers.

Ned would much prefer such a boy as his son-in-law, someone honourable, kind and polite, with a good heart to stand by his daughter's side through good and bad times, even though there were troublesome rumours to say the least going on about him and Renly Baratheon of all people... He did not look forward to having a conversation with his young maiden daughter about it, and prayed to old gods and new that Catelyn would return to them all long in time before he had to.

Come home, Cat. Your children here need you. We all need you. Travel fast, and travel safe home."