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Sansa StarkTanya von DegurechaffNed StarkArya StarkTyrion LannisterRobert BaratheonJon SnowLady | Sansa Stark's DirewolfJaime Lannister

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Political Sansa StarkPolitical AlliancesBetrayal

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Published:2026-04-12Updated:2026-05-29Words:86,854Chapters:18/?Comments:344Kudos:687Bookmarks:188Hits:20,211

A Young Warg's Game of Thrones

Failninjaninja

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

Jon hacked at the pell with his tourney blade. The blows came quick and wild, iron ringing on wood. Accuracy did not matter. Only the strike. Again and again he swung, until the post shuddered beneath the assault. The old timber was meant for such punishment, yet even so it groaned and split as he found his rhythm.

"Jon, JON!"

He stopped swinging, and realized he had been shouted out for some time. He turned and saw a worried-looking Robb.

"You are going to make yourself ill. How long have you been out here?"

Jon suddenly felt his limbs grow heavy. His palms sent lances of pain up his arms. He realized he was panting and his body was shaking.

"Sorry," he mumbled. A wave of queasiness rose in his belly.

"Is this about me not allowing you to go south?"

Jon breathed in deeply and then exhaled with a sigh.

"No… yes… I do not know. Bran suffers for it, more than he lets on. To see him here, after what was done to Sansa… and with Lady Stark gone… it sits ill with me."

"Her journey south was made in secret, but it shan't be long now 'ere she returns. You going south would raise questions and it would also cause problems. In Father's seat of power, it was one thing to have you sit with us, but King's Landing may not be as forgiving. There's not much you could do there."

"I could protect Sansa and Arya!" Jon shouted. "What was done to her… I cannot sit here doing nothing!"

Robb winced and then looked down. It was obvious that Robb felt as helpless as he did.

"You aren't doing nothing. You are training your sword arm. You are helping me piece together how to rule while Mother and Father are gone. I need you here. Winter is coming. Our longbeards feel it, Maester Luwin warns that long summers lead to longer winters, and I've dreamed…" he shook his head. "As Maester Luwin says, we must prepare for the winter. Father will most like remain Hand for years."

Jon understood, but it didn't change how he felt. Bran was nearly murdered by an assassin. His sister had been raped. The prince had been killed. The south was dangerous.

"Robb, is fifty guardsmen truly enough? I don't mean to question Jory's competency, but Maester Luwin tells me King's Landing has hundreds of thousands of people."

Robb frowned. "If more were necessary, I'm sure Father would have arranged for more. But I will write to him." His brother looked discomforted for a moment, then pushed forward. "If Father does need more, I will send you to command the guard. You will be five-and-ten soon and for your name day I've had Mikken forge proper armor for you."

Jon's eyes widened in disbelief. "Robb… I… the cost, I can't accept."

Robb clapped him on the shoulder and Jon winced. He really had overtaxed himself in the yard.

"I manage the finances of Winterfell, remember? It won't be all pretty like those southern knights, but it will be proper plate. Gorget, greaves, vambraces, and a proper helm."

Jon embraced his brother. They may only be half-brothers, but Robb was a truer brother than any that existed, regardless of the circumstances of Jon's birth.

"Thank you!"

Robb smiled. "The armor you will have, regardless. But I'm not keen to be rid of you yet, so don't go packing your travel bags just yet."

For now, Jon needed to soak in the warm heat of the Winterfell baths. He still felt out of sorts after his overexertion. The horrors of the last few moons were like a weight and at times he still wondered at his decision not to join the Night's Watch.

I have a place here. I have my father, Sansa, and Robb to thank for that.

***

It was immensely pleasing to see the progress Arya had made. An animal that did not have the 'bond' with me was something she could enter into far more easily. It wasn't as easy for Arya as it had been for me, but she was biologically younger, and in terms of life experience, it was even more stark. I was making a supposition that strength of will and personality were what mattered, but that was just guesswork, and was more a feeling than true empirical data.

How does one quantify willpower? Hmm, perhaps when I see my brothers in person again I can try to approximate it and then run some tests. The problem is there are confounding variables here. Age, willpower, innate gift for the ability to warg, and perhaps more. What if the personalities allowed for greater ease? There is far too much I don't know. I'm hesitant to write my uncle Benjen about stories of skinchangers beyond the Wall, but perhaps I can one day visit in person.

Since I had created a sort of link between myself and the scarred gray kitchen cat, I figured I should give it a name. I opted for Anna. When I slipped into Anna or another cat, a rat, or a bird, the experience altered my mental state for a time even within my own body. I was present-minded enough to account for it and suppress it, but it was interesting to theorize what was going on. Was it that my mind was carrying back instinctual impulses and they were now floating in my neural network somehow?

Rather than getting secondhand information from the serving maids, I found it useful to overhear people's conversations. Listening in as regular people worked in the kitchens, or as the guards patrolled, or even as they ate their communal meals, gave me a massive amount of insight as to what the smallfolk truly thought. It was rather shocking.

They thought my family was savage. That the Lord of Winterfell, my father, was made of ice and would sic his wolves on them if they failed to show proper deference. They spoke about Prince Joffrey in mixed terms, a few maids had even whispered happiness over it, but most thought it a great tragedy that such a beautiful and gallant young future king had been slain.

It was gratifying to hear that they thought I was 'brave' to face the whispers of the court with such poise. Some of the guards made some rather disgusting remarks about me, which I ignored. The smallfolk liked to gossip and it was my sister who received the most questions. She was rarely seen in the company of other ladies and was cloistered in the Tower of the Hand often, or so they believed. Well, it was actually true as she spent a good deal of time watching over my body as I was out riding within other creatures' skins. It worked out well enough, as she would practice her balance and other exercises Syrio taught her, and she had told others she needed the utmost concentration and to never be disturbed while she was practicing her 'dance' moves.

Many thought the Hand was protecting her and keeping her safe lest his second daughter also become ruined. With my own virtue tarnished, they understood why the Hand let me prance around where I will.

I still can't believe a few reckless souls really told tales of me with Robert and Tyrion in an utterly inappropriate fashion. I'm not even twelve yet!

The age of maturity in Westeros was sixteen. However, girls were generally considered ready for mating when they 'flowered' or to be specific, when they started their menstrual cycle. Not to say that marriages didn't occur before the flowering. One example I recall from reading the histories was Aemma Arryn marrying Viserys when she was eleven. However, he waited to consummate the marriage until after she had begun her period and was capable of producing a child.

Given the number of miscarriages she suffered before producing Rhaenyra, they really should have waited longer than the age of thirteen!

This, as well as a large number of other issues, made me satisfied with my chosen course. I had no desire for marriage at all, though my father had repeatedly assured me that he would do all he could to find a decent match for me. I had demurred and suggested that I didn't even want to think about marriage until many years had gone since my betrothed had lost his life so tragically. He meant well, but unlike other highborn ladies who pined and fretted over it, I knew I had security already. Robb would never turn me away and I might even be able to act as his consigliere when he inherited Winterfell.

Marriage was a key function in alliance building, but my family already had an embarrassment of riches in that regard. Our vassals were already deeply loyal, as far as I could tell at least. The North was a quarrelsome lot at times, but all respected my father. His wife, my mother, was Catelyn Tully. Eldest daughter to Hoster Tully, who ruled the Riverlands. Father was Hand to the King, and before that, good friends with him. He had been raised by the prior Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, and Jon's widow was my Aunt Lysa. The Vale of Arryn, the Riverlands, and the north were highly unified by marriage and had strong friendships with the Stormlands.

I didn't need to be wed in order to enhance our position, we were already quite strong. Ties to the Reach might be useful, but Father disliked the Lannisters and there would be little point with isolationist Dorne. Perhaps a Crownlands match would be useful, but it would just make a small difference on the margins, nothing that I felt any guilt over ruining with my actions.

And if Arya does marry Tommen our position is even more secure. Though I am beginning to suspect Arya will object strongly to being queen. But she's young, and Tommen seems to have a much better temperament than Joffrey had.

For the likes of Jeyne Poole, marriage to a fourth son of a minor noble or perhaps a knight, few that they were in the north, was her best prospect. She was with me in the swaying litter along with Septa Mordane as we traversed King's Landing to the tourney grounds outside of the walls of King's Landing. Perhaps someone like Jon would be a good pairing. He was a bastard, but Robb would treat him well. Jeyne had the unfortunate opinion of bastards as did most of Westeros, but it would provide her security and Jon would treat her well.

Alternatives might include Harwin, who was ten years her senior, or perhaps in a few years she might charm some lordling or knight. As she was my only female companion, aside from my sister, I felt somewhat obligated to think of her future.

"So many people have come out! Look Sansa, look at all the banners!"

My polite smile was apparently not enthusiastic enough for her because she sighed overdramatically.

"Don't you find it positively enchanting? It is like out of a song!"

Where did she think songs drew their inspiration from? Some were exaggerated, surely, but by and large bards and mummers alike observed grand events like tournaments and battles and then sang about them. I was jaded by the military parades of my second life and the entertainment of my first life. The pageantry of color upon banners and flags just didn't stir my heart like it did Jeyne and even Septa Mordane.

"Look there, Jason Mallister. He's the one in indigo, with wings like that of an eagle on his helm!" Septa Mordane called out and pointed.

Mordane spoke about how he had slain three of Rhaegar's bannermen on the Trident back during that pivotal battle of Robert's Rebellion. I wondered briefly as to why that would stand out for Mordane, but I didn't truly care and Jeyne was already pointing out others such as Thoros of Myr. He was a warrior priest of the R'hllor religion. The man liked to light his blade with wildfire, which was rather unsporting in my view as the purpose of tourney blades was to make it so injury was less likely.

I took the time to quiz Jeyne on the heraldry. She wasn't overly smart, but she was no dullard either, and had a good eye and recollection. She correctly identified the likes of Ser Balon Swann, Lord Bryce Caron, and Ser Andar Royce.

I wonder if the tales of the runes on their armor having protective power are true or not. Most believe it just ancient superstitions; old folk tales like those of grumkins and the Others. But if skinchangers are real, perhaps other tales have a grain of truth to them. It would be a mistake to believe that every absurd tale now is true, but in time I should try to at least do a cursory examination if I obtain the chance.

"Oh, and that grape cluster sigil must be the Redwynes."

With a smile I praised her, "Well done, those would be Ser Horas and Ser Hobber. Can you identify those six over there?"

"The Freys of the crossing. I heard Lollys saying that he has a hundred children."

"I believe she might have meant a hundred descendants, though perhaps he has many unaccounted natural born children as well."

Jeyne very nearly swooned at the sight of Lord Beric Dondarrion and his red-gold hair. Unfortunately for Jeyne, her birth was far too poor to ever make her a suitable match for the Stormlander. I caught sight of Sandor Clegane and frowned.

I had heard of what he had done and his zeal to punish those responsible for the murder of his charge. He tortured those poor people at the holdfast I had dined at and given silver to. My generosity had led to their dismemberment and then execution. The Hound had then gone on and hunted down the 'culprits' and slew them. My understanding, or at least what the rumors stated, was that they had previously been wanted men. Perhaps the scales balanced somewhat by the Hound tracking down actual criminals guilty of some other crime.

It was ironic that Sandor's actions had further provided for an ironclad cover for me murdering Joffrey. It did not make me grateful to him. He was a liar, a torturer, and a murderer and I hoped he managed to get himself hurt out there. The queen had dismissed him from service, my father rightly wanted nothing to do with him, and between the two, there were very few who he might find employ with. This may well be his last chance to earn coin with the absurdly generous prize purses. Even at half the initial proposed value, the sums were astronomically absurd.

Winterfell's riders took the field. Jory, Alyn, and Harwin were the only ones representing the Starks or any houses north of the Neck.

"Jory looks a beggar among these others," Septa Mordane sniffed.

"Let us see if form or function serve better. His blue-grey plate has no ornament but looks as solid as any other," I replied, feeling a bit like a sports fan. I had never been passionate about it in my first life, but that was what I likened events like this to. I could even feel a pleasant tension and even gave a cheer as Jory unhorsed Horas Redwyne. That was the only victory for the riders of Winterfell in the first round, as both Alyn and Harwin had the bad luck to face members of the Kingsguard for their first tilt.

Jeyne was acting rather childish, attempting to cling to me when the jousters clashed.

"Jeyne, remember, you are representing Winterfell. You may still be a child, but you mustn't act like one."

"I'm sorry, Sansa. The crash is just so loud and violent."

I watched with interest as some people placed bets around us. They seemed to be straight bets, not true odds making, and not seemingly governed by any sort of official bookie. These were wealthy nobles and notables placing bets. Tyrion wagered heavily on his brother besting Ser Barristan Selmy, and laughed raucously when his brother proved the victor.

I caught sight of Ser Gregor Clegane for the first time and was a bit dumbstruck by the sheer size of the man. I had seen Greatjon Umber once in Winterfell's feast hall. Umber was taller than even Sandor Clegane, but the Mountain That Rides dwarfed them all. He seemed almost a full foot taller than Lord Umber. I had to wonder if tales of giants and the potential of intermingling of giant and man lurked somewhere in the background of the gene pool. Because from a human biology perspective, this verged on the impossible.

In my first life, I knew that some humans grew taller than eight feet. But none were athletic and all had horrific ailments. None of them would have been able to wear thick plate and participate in competitive athletic events. Pituitary disorders were no joke, but they did not seem to cause Gregor Clegane any issue. He rode well, and the sheer mass and power proved him the victor over and over again.

I narrowed my eyes while Jeyne shrieked as Gregor's lance rode up and struck a knight of the Vale in the neck. The gorget had not been fastened correctly and the dull wooden tip drove underneath it and killed the knight instantly. Had the gorget been there properly, the tourney lance could not have penetrated, though the potential whiplash might still have caused injury to the neck.

I was unable to calm Jeyne and had Septa Mordane take her back to the Tower of the Hand. I continued watching and cheered for Jory as he won his second tilt. He ended up being unhorsed in his third, but it had been a decent showing, considering that tournaments were a rare thing for Winterfell.

Lord Renly was an able jouster, but the Hound sent him flying. A sharp crack made me worry about Robert's younger brother, but it was only the ridiculous golden antler on his helm. I understand that jousting was about showing pride in your house and kingdom, but it seemed particularly silly to me. Renly made a show of handing it to Sandor as a prize with a gracious bow, but he just threw it in the crowd who began to fight over it. Renly took ownership of the situation and walked into the commons and got them settled and the joust continued.

Ser Loras, the youngest rider on the field was a little older than Robb. At sixteen he was already somewhat a veteran of jousting and had unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard in his jousts. His white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses and he seemed to enjoy hamming it up for the crowd. After besting Ser Robar Royce, he rode around the fence marking the jousting area and stopped in front of me.

"Sweet lady," he said, "no victory is half so beautiful as you."

"My thanks, Ser Loras. You rode well, good fortune in your tilts to come."

His eyes widened momentarily, as if he was startled that I had spoken directly to him. He smiled lazily and gave me a courtly nod before riding away. The brief attention had drawn eyes and shortly afterwards a small man made his way toward me. He was short, with a pointed beard and a silver streak in his hair.

"You must be one of her daughters," he said to me. "You have the Tully look."

I saw the silver mockingbird that fastened the heavy cloak about his neck.

"An honor to meet you, Lord Baelish. I believe I owe you some thanks."

He had been stepping forward, and then stilled.

"Oh?"

"Yes. My father says you are able to find coin where none should exist. My betrothed will live on for your ability to do so through Joffrey's Tower. I am pleased to have been able to express my gratitude in person."

His fingers brushed against my cheek as he stroked my hair. I kept my face neutral at the intrusion. Some people were more handsy than others, and rank shielded people. Baelish was a minor house with little land, but as a member of the small council, he had power. A commoner doing the same gesture would be whipped. If I wished to press the issue, he might be forced to apologize, but I saw no reason to cause strife and bad blood between my father and the master of coin.

"You have her hair. And your mother's confidence. Tell me, child, have you ever had occasion to visit the Vale?"

"I have not had that honor, though my father has told me stories of his time there. He accounted the folk there as honorable, the highest compliment he can make."

Baelish looked at me very oddly for a moment or two and then dipped his head and departed. The king then announced that due to the late hour, the final three jousts would be held in the morning prior to the melee. The commoners would walk back to their homes in King's Landing while the court would move to the riverside to begin the post-joust feast.

Desmond, one of my father's men, was waiting for me as I exited the stands.

"I do not see Septa Mordane, did you wish to return to the Tower of the Hand, Lady Sansa?"

"I'll attend the feast and then you may escort me. Come, join me, none will look askance at a guard being by my side and feasting."

I then made my way over and looked for Tyrion. After spotting him, I made my way to him.

"Lord Tyrion, I had some questions for you, if you have a few moments."

"Ask away, Lady Sansa."

"I saw you betting with others on who would win the joust. Can anyone bet? Are there any bylaws I should be aware of? I also know that Ser Gregor Clegane, Ser Loras Tyrell, Sandor Clegane, and your brother Ser Jaime will be jousting on the morrow. Is it decided who they will face?"

Tyrion gave a bark of laughter. "Gods be good, do you mean to shorten me even further? I cannot let the Hand's own daughter turn gambler."

I just stared at him, and after a pause he told me the rest. "There are no laws against it, despite what Stannis might wish. My brother will face the Hound and Gregor will face Loras. The winner of each match will face each other in the finals. I typically bet against Renly and Baelish, but a few others dare to wager on occasion. Janos Slynt will put forward a bet or two, but the man, despite his many bribes, is not all that wealthy compared to the nobility."

How unprofessional. The City Watch commander taking bribes? It was expected, but not that it would be spoken about so openly. Corruption should at least have the decency to be done under the table away from sight.

"Hmm, well I'd like to wager heavily on Jaime beating the Hound. Can you facilitate such a bet for me? Should he win I'll grant you a small percentage."

Torture people over some silver, will you? Well, there will be no prize for you, Sandor Clegane. And at the same time, I can improve my personal wealth.

Tyrion's jaw had dropped and he looked at me incredulously.

"Sansa… ah, my lady, does your father know you intend to do this?"

"No, of course not. It will be our secret. I'd prefer to work with you, as I trust you, but if not I suppose I can ask Lord Renly, Lord Baelish, or Janos Slynt directly."

He looked pained and I was being a mite difficult here. Emotions I couldn't identify filtered across his face for the next few moments and then with a groan Tyrion nodded.

"How much are you prepared to wager?"

"I heard a hundred gold dragons being wagered, can that be arranged?"

"Do you have a hundred gold dragons?" Tyrion asked bluntly.

"No. But I happen to be on good terms with the Hand of the King…" I said with a slight smile.

"Your father will be most wroth if he finds out. I never bet against my brother, but he doesn't always win."

"Yes, I am certain. Your brother bested Ser Barristan Selmy, a man my father respects as the greatest living knight in Westeros. Surely he can beat Clegane."

"As you say, I am sure I will find someone who will take the bet. And think nothing of my efforts, I'll not take your coin. Just promise to allow me to facilitate any future betting instead of going somewhere else."

"We have ourselves an agreement, Lord Tyrion. You have my gratitude."

***

Ned walked with Barristan Selmy after seeing Ser Hugh's body. This couldn't be mere happenstance. A Lannister bannerman killing one of the last people who might be of use to Ned's investigation. He had slept badly, as had others in his house, for Sansa begged off attending the second day of the tourney. A momentary pang of regret pierced his heart. He had not given any thought to how Sansa may have endured seeing someone slain in front of her. Not after her own close brush with those brigands.

Just because she shows no outward sign of distress does not mean she does not feel it.

The king intended to fight in the melee today. The queen at last night's feasting had attempted to forbid him from doing so, and he had grown most wroth. Ned knew that Robert was stubborn and would not back down, but he had halfway hoped that the king was still abed in a wine-soaked sleep. Alas, when he and Ser Barristan came upon the king's pavilion the man was roaring his displeasures at his squires.

Handsome boys, fair and well made. Golden curls and the same emerald-green eyes as the queen.

"Look at these oafs, Ned. My wife insisted I take these two to squire for me, and they're worse than useless. In a year or two I ought to replace them with my own son, but with my luck he'd most like already be in tears!"

Ned frowned. He had understood Robert to be somewhat of an absent father, but now that he had attempted to try to take a hand in Tommen's upbringing, things had not worked out well. The young prince was weepy when Robert yelled at him and the queen had grown more and more upset in turn with Robert. It was troubling.

"Squires, they say. I say they're swineherds dressed up in silk," Robert groused.

"The boys are not at fault. You are too fat for the armor, Robert."

Robert took a long swallow of beer and then tossed the empty horn aside.

"Fat? Fat, is it? Is that how you speak to your king?" Robert's voice was dangerously low, but Ned knew his longtime friend well enough to see the twinkle in the man's eyes.

He had seen Robert's wrath unsoftened by jest, the day he had demanded justice for Elia and her children. The girl stabbed again and again, the babe's skull dashed against the wall. If Robert ever learned…

Not now.

He forced the wretched memory away as the king let go his laughter, sudden as a storm.

"Ah, damn you, Ned, why are you always right?"

The king amused himself by sending his squires to fetch him as 'breastplate stretcher.' The fool boys left, though whether that was just to get away from the king or with honest intent to find an item that did not exist, Ned could not say.

"Those boys," Ned asked him. "Lannisters?"

"Cousins. Sons of Lord Tywin's brother. One of the dead ones. Or perhaps the live one. I don't recall. My wife comes from a very large family, Ned."

It troubled Ned how Robert was surrounded by the queen's kin, waking and sleeping. The Lannister appetite for offices and honors seemed to know no bounds.

"Your son is seven. And grieving his brother, no doubt. You should go easier, and not disparage him in front of others, for his sake."

"Gods be good, have you been talking to my wife behind my back?" Robert said in faux dismay. He slapped Ned's shoulder. "The boy needs toughening up. Maybe if I had been harder on Joffrey he would not have been slain without taking one of the bastards with him."

Ned knew this was not the time. Other matters need to be set to right first.

"You and she grow more heated in your words with every passing today, such as last night."

"The woman tried to forbid me to fight in the melee. She's sulking in the castle now, damn her. Your sister would never have shamed like that."

"You never knew Lyanna as I did, Robert," Ned told him. "You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath. She would have told you that you have no business in the melee."

"You too?" Robert frowned. "Seven hells, Ned, the damnable Hound didn't bring my son's murderers to me alive to kill myself. I need to hit someone!"

"You would vent your rage upon your own leal lords and knights?"

Robert threw up his hands and Barristan gave a sharp shake of his head only Ned could see.

What is he… oh!

As Barristan spoke and said that it was not seemly for the king to ride because it would not be a fair contest, Ned understood what he was doing. Ser Barristan may be an honorable man, but he did have cunning as well.

"Who would dare strike you?" Barristan finished.

"Why, all of them, damn it. If they can. And the last man left standing…"

"Will be you," Ned finished. "There's not a man in the Seven Kingdoms who would dare risk your displeasure by hurting you."

"Are you telling me those prancing cravens will let me win?"

Barristan nodded along with Ned.

With a roar he threw his breastplate at Barristan who nimbly dodged away from the heavy piece of hurled metal.

"Get out," the king said then, coldly. "Get out before I kill you."

Ser Barristan left quickly, and as Ned moved to follow, Robert commanded him to stay.

Robert unburdened himself. He complained of being fat, of not being fit for the Iron Throne, of how it should have been him that was king or Jon. How things had gone awry and now that he was trying to mend things, more things kept going wrong.

"Gods be good, Ned. How do you do it? You have five children with Cat and all are ones any man would be proud to have sired. Your oldest, Robb? He'll be like you, all lordly and a bore, I can tell, but he's a fine heir. A pity about your middle son, but gods, Sansa tells me he is a bright lad, maybe he'll be a maester? He can advise your eldest once he's got a chain from the Citadel. The littlest one, he's got a set of lungs unless my memory has misled me. He'll have a good voice for the battlefield."

Ned forced himself to smile at the compliments, even as he struggled with unease at the thought of how close Bran had brushed with death. Both in the initial fall and his attempted assassination.

"And your eldest daughter… gods, how I wish I could have made those sons of whores suffer for what they did. The Hound was too quick, aye, I know battle is battle, but still. They deserved to burn…"

Robert paled a brief moment and looked sickly. "See? See? All I do is foul things up. I have not the words."

"The intent is clear, Your Grace. It was long ago. I worry over the future, not the past."

"Sansa, despite everything, she faces each day as bold as brass. She can't be deaf to the whispers, but pays them no heed. She would have been a fine queen, better than any we've ever had." Robert drank more beer from a second horn. "And Arya, what a fierce little thing. She reminds me of Brandon, rough around the edges, but a wild wolf of the north indeed. You are a fortunate man, Ned."

"Thank you, Your Grace. You will not find me disagreeing."

"Myrcella, she'll make some lord happy. She's fair to look upon, and agreeable. But… ah, we've nothing in common. I can't find singing, stitching, or whatever else women get on with fascinating. Sansa keeps things interesting, tells me tales of your land and manages to paint even my eldest in a positive light."

It bothered Ned how Robert spoke of his deceased son. Was there more about Joffrey that Ned had not been informed of? It was queer, but he did not wish to press on the issue that might revive Robert's fading ire.

"I just want Tommen to be a knight, a worthy heir. Have you seen Mace Tyrell's boy? The Knight of Flowers, they call him. Now there's a son any man would be proud to own to. Last tourney he dumped the Kingslayer on his golden rump, you ought to have seen the look on Cersei's face. Renly says he has a sister, a maid of fourteen, lovely as a dawn, she'll be arriving in a fortnight. A companion for Myrcella and Sansa, 'twill be good for them to have another lady of proper station so they can do," he waved his hand vaguely, "womanly things."

Renly wants to put Margaery in your bed. It is the last thing the realm needs. But your disappointment with Tommen, combined with Margaery's beauty, may convince you.

Ned knew it was a dangerously foolish idea. Not just for the current situation but for future generations. Even if Myrcella was wed to Robb, somewhere down the line, people would attempt to give a crown to their descendants for one cause or another. Or someone will fear that lineage and act even though no treason be considered. That is if the ruthless Tywin Lannister did not find some brutal way to make his displeasure known.

And yet… if the Lannisters did murder Jon, is it more foolish to allow them to remain in power? After they attempted to murder Bran? Perhaps I should speak with Sansa about this, she has a head for these intrigues despite her tender years.

The king's melancholy melted away with the morning mist as servants brought breakfast. Robert was deep in his memories now, speaking of events when they were both boys being fostered in the Eyrie.

"Eh, you know, come to think of it, maybe that is the solution. I could have Tommen fostered somewhere. I bet the North would toughen him up! You'd have to remain here as my Hand, but I trust your lady wife and your son to see to his education. Mayhaps I can wrangle Robert Arryn from his mother's skirts too. Mad woman left here in a hurry without so much as a by-your-leave, I'd wager anything she's coddling him just like Cersei does with Tommen."

"Would the queen allow it? She had just lost one son. I am not opposed to opening my hall to your family, Robert, but this discord would only worsen should you suggest it."

"I'm king, not her. But, perhaps 'tis too soon. I… I try not to be a beast to her, but she just brings the worst out of me. Despite it all, I'd no wish to cause her even more grief. Come, it's time to see how the jousting and the damned melee goes."

Ned sat next to the king as the Hound arrived on the field. Betting was already taking place with Littlefinger, Tyrion, and Renly all making bets. Lord Baelish bet on Jaime Lannister to win as did Tyrion. Renly took both their offers, saying that the Hound was hungry and a hungry dog without food was most dangerous.

"Well, if you are so confident, then let us double that pledge. Two hundred gold dragons on my brother defeating the dog," Tyrion proposed.

"Done," Renly shouted back.

"I'll take that wager as well, dwarf," Robert called out to Tyrion. "Clegane owes no more loyalty to the Lannisters so we'll see that pretty gold marred by the dirt today!"

Ned always looked upon the Kingslayer with disgust. Jaime glittered from head to heel. Even his lance was fashioned from the golden wood of the Summer Isles. The man had perched atop the Iron Throne as if it was his by treacherous deed.

I cannot believe it, but I find myself hoping the Hound unseats him.

There was something, however. The Hound's horse was jittery. He sawed on the reins and the beast settled down. The Hound leaned forward as he rode, his lance rock steady, up until maybe two horse lengths apart from the Kingslayer, there his horse veered and galloped almost into the tilt barrier. Clegane's lance did not even connect, but the Kingslayer's did. The Hound struck the ground hard. He rolled as he landed and was groaning and cursing as he got to his feet.

"Seven hells, the Imp is going to be insufferable now."

Ned did not like the idea of betting on the outcome, not after Ser Hugh died for this sport.

The next battle was between Ser Loras and Ser Gregor Clegane. The man had killed Ser Hugh and was rumored to have raped Princess Elia and killed her son, Prince Aegon. Ned still had a hard time grasping just how massive the man was. His destrier seemed a pony between his armored legs. Like his brother, Ser Gregor was having difficulty controlling his horse.

I wonder if those two misuse their animals. It is said that his keep is a grim place where servants disappeared and even dogs were afraid to enter the hall. This is the sort of man the Lannisters employ.

Ser Loras had no such trouble and managed to center his lance on the perfect spot to send the Mountain, and his horse, to the dirt in a tangle of steel and flesh. The man raged as he wrenched off his helm and slammed it down onto the ground. He shouted for his sword and upon gaining it, butchered his own mount. Not even Sandor had gone that far in his displeasure.

But Gregor was not done. He was striding down the lists toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his bloody sword clutched in his fist.

"Stop him!" Ned shouted, but the crowd was roaring and he doubted any heard him.

The Knight of Flowers was shouting for his own sword as Ser Gregor knocked his squire aside and made a grab for the reins of the horse. The mare scented blood and reared. Loras Tyrell kept his seat, but barely. Ser Gregor swung his sword, a savage two-handed blow that took the boy in the chest and knocked him from the saddle. The plate armor held, of course, you could not cut through a breastplate with the slash of a sword, but now Loras was on the ground and a blow from a man like Gregor to the helm could easily deal a deadly blow.

Only, the blow never came, instead the Tyrell boy's mare came to his defense, twisting its body and striking out with her back hooves. The force of a horse's kick was deadly, and it struck Gregor in the shoulder pauldron. Gregor had evidently not expected such a thing at all. Warhorses had been known to kick in battle, but it was not something that was common. Most horses were trained to follow the rider's commands completely, not act independently.

The powerful back kick smashed into the heavy plate and made Gregor totter and then fall. If he had braced for it, he might have held up, being such an absurd physical specimen, but even from his distance, Ned could see the hooves had dented part of the armor.

A second squire ran in and handed Loras a sword while Gregor got to his feet in a roar.

"STOP THIS MADNESS," Robert boomed, "IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"

Loras backed away and Gregor took mammoth steps forward. Ned joined the guardsmen and Kingsguard in front of the king, but the Mountain halted, breathing heavily. He dropped his sword and glared at Robert and then wordlessly strode off.

After that, the final joust was a meager and disappointing spectacle for the crowds. The first clash saw both keep to their seats, but Ned could tell Ser Loras was not as keenly focused as he was once. In the second tilt, Jaime Lannister knocked the Knight of Flowers from his saddle and was crowned the champion.

And more honor and glory go to the Lannisters. None should care who wins a damned tourney, and yet it matters.

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Sansa StarkTanya von DegurechaffNed StarkArya StarkTyrion LannisterRobert BaratheonJon SnowLady | Sansa Stark's DirewolfJaime Lannister

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Published:2026-04-12Updated:2026-05-29Words:86,854Chapters:18/?Comments:344Kudos:687Bookmarks:188Hits:20,211

A Young Warg's Game of Thrones

Failninjaninja

Chapter 11

Notes:

Embarrassingly - I goofed pretty hard. I had the first snippet of this story posted a long time ago in the snippet's thread. I ended up not adding to the chapter (extra POVs and 2k+ more words) and when I ended up creating this story thread I copy and pasted from my snippet chapter instead of my word doc.

It really is my own fault because I get a bit lazy and just update the story thread quickly when someone points out a typo or grammar issue, and don't always update the word doc. When I cross-post I typically just do it from the story thread instead of my word doc and it came back to bite me this time.

All that to say - go read Chapter 1 again for some extra POVs.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

Ned was deeply disturbed by the discussion he had with Varys. That the queen had plotted to kill Robert through the melee by forbidding him from participating was the type of vile cunning he had not considered. That Varys would not bring it to the king for fear that he would not be believed and would be left to the mercy of the Lannisters was also disturbing.

This place is sickening.

Varys had as much as said that Ser Hugh was the one who had used the Tears of Lys to murder Jon Arryn. And when he had asked to what end, why kill him after so many years? What had Jon been doing that had riled up the Lannisters? Varys had left with the ominous answer of, 'asking questions.'

Everyone seemed to be playing some game in King's Landing and now he had to as well. As loathsome as it was, he knew he needed someone he could trust completely. He wished his wife was here. Or even Maester Luwin. Given Renly's plotting to replace Cersei, it was time to speak with Sansa and see if she was even willing to aid Margaery.

In the morning he had Sansa join him in his solar.

"I have been asked by the king's brother to do a favor. It feels wrong, but I would like to discuss it with you."

Sansa nodded. "Lord Renly, I presume? What is the favor?"

Ned felt uneasy. He sighed, attempting to press on.

"He's asked that you make Margaery Tyrell feel welcome when she comes to King's Landing. She's three years your senior and Renly has asked that you teach her the type of poetry you've read to the king."

"And?" Sansa prodded. "Father, please don't look startled. You would not be acting like this if that was all."

She would be better at this than I am.

"This must be kept quiet; no one must learn of it. Renly seeks to have Cersei replaced with Margaery."

His daughter's eyes widened.

"That… is dangerous. Robert is the head of a new dynasty, no matter what claims of Targaryen blood he may also have. To muddy the waters in such a way and make the Lannisters the eternal enemy of the Tyrells and the Baratheons is bold. Did Lord Renly say why?"

"He has little love for the Lannisters and is great friends with the Tyrells."

"So, no reason or cause to set aside the queen other than she now displeases our king?"

Ned must have looked uncomfortable. "None that Renly knows of, at least."

Sansa looked at him for a long time, letting the silence stretch.

"Father, if you command it, I will of course provide every aid and courtesy to Margaery. But I would feel better if you give me more details about what is going on at court. Especially if I'm to be interacting with the lady who may be our future queen."

What am I doing? She should not be burdened with this. But I have already spoken of the plot with Margaery. In for a copper…

He took a steadying breath. "I believe Jon Arryn was murdered by the Lannisters."

Ned wasn't sure what he had expected. Maybe a shocked expression or a gasp of incredulity. Instead she just calmly nodded.

"Is there proof?"

"I am working on that."

"What is the cause of your suspicion?"

"A person I trust shared this with me in confidence."

Sansa leaned back. "There are two types of false information. One given knowingly, where this person you trust lied to you. Or, perhaps the person is telling you the truth as they see it, and they are mistaken. What evidence did they provide?"

Ned shook his head with frustration. "Nothing, just their word."

"I still need more information, but it sounds as if you would consent to this dangerous ploy to cut out the Lannisters from power within the royal line because you suspect they have murdered the prior Hand. Was Jon in on the plan? Could he and Lord Renly have conspired together?"

Ned shook his head. "I doubt it. And it was Stannis who spent time with Jon, not Renly. I'm not sure why, but those two visited one of Robert's bastards shortly before Jon's death."

Sansa looked down at the table, thinking intently.

"That could be it." Sansa looked up at him with a small smile. "Did Robert's bastard look like him?"

Ned nodded.

"Black hair?"

"Yes, what of it?" Ned wasn't sure where his daughter was going with this.

"If the Lannisters murdered Jon Arryn, it may be because he was looking for a reason to set Cersei aside. The tome you had me read through was quite dull, but what it did do was provide descriptions of various unions. Black hair tends to overpower light colors, though not always. In particular, Baratheon almost always wins out when paired with lighter hues. Jon may have been attempting to gather evidence to convince Robert that his children may not be his. I admit, the odds of three blond children seems unlikely, but it isn't as improbable due to lighter… let's call it a lighter trait lingering in his line. But Robert does not strike me as an overly learned man, so this conspiracy to replace Cersei probably counted on his ignorance there."

Ned was trying to follow. He was used to his daughter speaking of concepts she had found in the books she loved so much, but some of the words were going past him.

"So… the book implies that Joffrey, along with Tommen and Myrcella may have been bastards due to hair color? Because Baratheon dark hair typically wins out against blonds like the Lannisters?" He frowned. "But you are saying that it does not prove it because of Robert's lineage."

Sansa gave a sharp jerk of her head. "Baratheon black tends to dominate over lighter shades. However, Laenor Velaryon and his sister were the children of Rhaenys Targaryen and their hair was silver-gold and silver-white respectively, while hers was black from her ancestry mixed with the Baratheon line. Lurking within the… well, let's call it legacy, or seed, if we must, of Robert Baratheon lay the Targaryen lighter colors. It is why sometimes two parents who have the same hue of hair give birth to a child with completely different hair. The more instances of lighter hair in the family line, the more likely such a result could come to pass. It is still rare for Robert and Cersei to have birthed three blond children, but not unheard of. If Jon was looking for a reason to justify Cersei being dismissed, it seems like that would be evidence that might even convince Robert."

Ned was beginning to feel a headache come on. Were Tommen and Myrcella Robert's children in truth, or not?

"Then the book is useless. Line theft cannot be proven by it."

"I wouldn't say that. Jon may have truly believed they were bastards. Or Jon had not yet settled it in his mind. Or Jon may have not cared and was desperate to remove the queen from power, and potentially sideline the debt owed to the Lannisters. The debt is a yoke around the realm and if what you say of Jon being a far-thinking man is true, this might have been the way to resolve it." She shrugged. "Even if Jon's intentions were ignoble, if he was murdered, that is still treason." She paused. "Or, there may have been other signs of infidelity from the queen Jon was investigating. I would speak to Stannis and find out what he knows. But is such an infidelity even likely? It would have to have been done underneath Robert and Ser Barristan Selmy's nose, and the risk would be irrational to take."

Ned had been given much to think about from his daughter. He would send a raven to Stannis, but until then, what else would be appropriate to do. If the queen had given Robert horns…

Gods… if the accusation is made and he believes it, he will have Cersei, Tommen, and Myrcella's head on spikes. And if they are his children he will be a kinslayer. No man is more accursed.

He also wasn't fully sure he should trust his daughter's knowledge. Essos was in some ways more advanced than Westeros. All knew of the wonders like the Myrish lens tube, but that did not mean they fully understood more than Westeros on the traits of babes when born. That Sansa was well-read was a useful asset, but it was still guesswork borrowed from others' knowledge.

"Father, another thing you may want to consider. I told you about the queen asking me to share your burdens with her. What exactly would you like me to tell her about Margaery? With how the Red Keep functions, and much of the serving staff possibly being informants for others, she will most likely know soon regardless. It may be useful for me to continue to appear as a source of useful information to her."

Ned shut his eyes at the thought of the dangerous game he was playing with his daughter. Every instinct and honorable notion he had ever held warred against playing this sort of game.

"I would not risk you in that manner."

She tilted her head. "Risk? Ironically, by proving myself loyal and potentially pliable, it lessens my personal risk even in the worst case scenario. I might also be able to glean more about her habits if I spend some time with her. Information is a two-way street, how she reacts to certain comments could be useful."

He felt soiled, but as was often the case when speaking with Sansa, her position was grounded in unimpeachable logic.

"Be careful, Sansa. The queen has many more years of experience playing these games of the south than you do. I trust you. Do not share that she is there to replace Cersei, but do tell her that you have been asked to teach her the poetry Robert likes."

What was being done was dangerous, for Sansa, for Margaery, and for the realm. He hoped Stannis could resolve this knot of confusion and uncertainty.

***

Tyrion was pleased with his winnings at the tournament, even if Sansa's own scandalous betting had shocked him. The only reason he had agreed was out of fear the girl would find someone else. She had enough troubles. It wasn't as if women couldn't gamble, his sweet sister certainly did, but doing so at such an early age with her father's coin would be looked upon askance.

Knowing the honorable Lord Stark, he wouldn't approve, and I have no wish to make her days any harder than they need be.

Tyrion did like the fact she recognized how good his brother was. Jaime had been in high spirits after winning the tourney. Their sister was normally pleased as well when Jaime did well, but she had seemed upset about other things. And now as he walked into the room, they both looked grim as if someone else had died.

A jest about someone else dying was quashed before it could form on his lips as he considered it may be too soon since Joffrey's death.

"Ill news?"

Cersei stared venom at him, which meant it was just another day that the sun rose.

"The Stark girl just shared the wondrous news that the court will be blessed with another Tyrell offspring," Jaime said sardonically.

"This isn't a matter to jest over," Cersei said harshly. "They are seeking to dangle the whore like a worm on a hook for Robert."

Tyrion arched an eyebrow. "Is the king displeased with you? Perhaps you should not openly demand that he not do things he wishes to do. You are quite lovely, when you aren't spewing venom, I'm sure you can do better than some girl half your age." He smirked. "Less than half."

Cersei advanced on him and her hand struck his cheek.

Jaime laughed. "Don't look at me, brother, you deserved that one."

I probably did.

Cersei stalked back and forth across the sitting chamber.

"Robert loves me not; he will be glad of any excuse. Jaime, what are we going to do?"

Jaime shrugged. "If he tries to set you aside, I'll kill him."

Tyrion winced. "Can we not speak of treason so loudly? I have a hard time believing the honorable Lord Stark would consent to putting a maid in the bed of the king in order to break apart your marriage. Father's reputation looms large and he owes our family a great debt. It would weaken the realm as well. It isn't as if Robert doesn't already satisfy his lusts with a dozen women or more every month. Do you really think Margaery is such a paragon of beauty that Robert will prize her above everything?"

Jaime yawned. "So, as usual, you counsel us to do nothing."

"Fuck the king. That is the queen's proper work. Be sweet, whisper about his prowess in something or another. Robert is a great oaf of a man, in love with food, wine, and fucking. It should not be hard to make such a man fond of you, Cersei."

Both his siblings frowned, and he realized that wasn't going to happen. With a heavy sigh he thought it best to propose something to avoid Cersei doing something more foolish.

"You can start by spreading rumor that the girl is barren due to some childhood sickness. Or, if you are feeling cruel, because she drank too much moon tea. Claim that a maester confirmed it and the Tyrells are desperate to keep it a secret, which is why they have not yet betrothed her. For entertainment during a feast, have a mummer replay the siege of Storm's End and how Mace Tyrell feasted in front of Robert's starving brothers."

Cersei pursed her lips, considering. Jaime gave Tyrion a grateful nod.

"You do have some use, brother," Cersei admitted. "But Robert barely pays attention to mummers when he's fondling the serving maid. I will think on it. It also troubles me that I heard of this first from Sansa instead of Varys. He's even less of a man than you, and he was to keep me informed in all things."

Tyrion shrugged, ignoring the insult. "The master of whisperers is loyal only to himself. If he told you too soon, perhaps whatever informant he has in Renly and Stark's employ would be put at risk. 'Tis good then that Sansa told you of it."

Cersei nodded her blond head.

"Yes, I think the girl thinks we are bonded over Joffrey, as if her infatuation with him could match a mother's grief," she said bitterly. "She is useful, though how much use is questionable. The only reason she even learned of this was because her father asked her to teach Margaery her poems. Lord Stark's claim of honor is no shield, as he seems to be an eager party to this scheme."

That did surprise Tyrion. He wondered if perhaps something was not well understood. A sudden chilling thought almost made him shiver.

Is Sansa involved in this game as more than a pawn? The idea of someone like Cersei successfully fooling a mind like hers would be more than passingly queer. And yet, I was once fooled into believing I was loved and married when I was only a little older than she is now. She has lost her betrothed and her status; perhaps Cersei's attempts at kindness are genuine. Sansa enjoys her time with Myrcella as well. But would that be enough for her to speak her father's secrets to the queen?

There were other, more disturbing possibilities, but they seemed unimaginable.

"As you say, Cersei. Just… try to be less shrewish with Robert. That may be the best defense against Tyrell schemes. I'll leave you two to it."

***

"Robert, I beg of you," Ned pleaded. "Hear what you are saying. You are talking of murdering a child!"

"THE WHORE IS PREGNANT!"

The king was furious, his dark eyes full of rage.

"I warned you this would happen, Ned. Back in the barrowlands, I warned you, but you did not care to hear it. Well, you'll hear it now. I want them dead, mother and child both, and that fool Viserys as well. Is that plain enough for you? I WANT THEM DEAD!"

Ned could not believe what he was hearing.

"Then you are no better than the brigands who accosted our children," Ned spat back, sudden fury making him bolder than he should have been.

Robert's face twisted in a rictus of fury.

"You dare? You… you…" Words would not come, such was the agonized fury choking him.

Renly looked alarmed. "We are all friends here, let us not be hasty with our words. Lord Stark, perhaps you have still grown unused to the stifling heat of the south."

Ned took a breath as Robert still choked on his words.

"I may have spoken too harshly. Robert has not yet suggested the girl be violated before she is killed, but Robert, you will dishonor yourself forever if you try to murder a girl with child. She has done nothing to you."

Robert finally mastered his temper. "If you were anyone else, I'd have your head for what you just said." He took a great breath into his chest and visibly tried to control himself before he continued. "I am not so blind that I cannot see the shadow of the axe when it hangs over my neck."

"There is no axe," Ned replied forcibly, "only the shadow of a shadow, twenty years removed, if it exists at all."

Varys interjected then and explained the source of his information. Ser Jorah Mormont. A man who had sold people into slavery for coin, a man who if Ned had gotten his hands on would have been short a head. He argued back and forth on the reliability of such a man, but it was plain that Robert believed it.

The Mad King's son and grandchildren had all been slain, but Viserys had been on Dragonstone, where, soon, little Daenerys would be born. They both had escaped to Essos and the whole discussion was wearing on him. The murder of children should never be contemplated. The whole situation was an oddity as Viserys would be the one in line for the throne, not any child of Daenerys.

Varys, Pycelle, and Littlefinger all made their arguments in favor of it. Arguing that if they didn't take care of the problem now, it would lead to a greater loss of life in the future. Even Renly gave his counsel.

"Lord Stark makes a good argument for why the threat may not materialize. Brother, we should not rage at his counsel, for it is honestly given. And yet, I fear the right choice would be to end the threat to your line swiftly. The Targaryen line should be broken for all time."

You all sicken me.

Only Ser Barristan sided with him, and that was not enough.

"I am out of wine and out of patience. Enough of this. Just have it done."

"I will not be part of murder, Robert. Do as you will, but do not ask me to fix my seal to it."

Renly looked pained as Robert digested the words in confusion.

Robert pointed an angry finger at Ned.

"You are the King's Hand, Lord Stark. You will do as I command you, or I'll find a Hand who will."

"I wish him every success." Ned unfastened the heavy clasp that clutched at the folds of his cloak. He laid it on the table in front of the king. "I thought you a better man than this, Robert. I thought we made a nobler king."

Robert threw his empty wine cup at him and then ranted and demanded that he leave or face his head on a spike. Ned was glad to be out of the stifling chamber. He would need to leave quickly. The mystery of Jon's death would remain unsolved. Ned knew he had failed the man who had fostered him in the Eyrie, but he could not, would not, affix his name to an order like this. If the lions pulled Robert down, then he would mourn the friend he used to have, not this king he did not know.

Upon his return he made swift preparations with his steward, Vayon Poole, to depart the accursed city. Sansa took one look at his face as he finished his commands and gave him a curious look.

"We are to depart from King's Landing; I am no longer Hand."

"What happened?"

He briefly explained Robert's plan to murder Daenerys and her unborn child, and how he could not countenance that as Hand.

"Father, if we must be away, that is all well and good, but is your primary concern stopping her murder, or is it your perception of honor?"

He paused. "What do you mean?"

"As Hand, you could continue to influence the king. As Hand, you could perhaps select a method unlikely to work. Without formal power, well, your options dwindle. You could attempt to send a message to warn her, but that might be viewed as treasonous."

It was a heavy thought. What did matter more?

Honor. I have made too many compromises already.

"I cannot be responsible for someone else halfway across the world, but I have a duty to act with honor. I have made my peace with it and have acted the way my father and forefathers would have. My king has made his decision, and if I cannot sway him from it, I will at least not be party to it."

She nodded. "I'll begin packing my things."

As she left, Tomard announced a visitor.

"Lord Baelish to see you, m'lord."

He didn't wish to speak with him, but knew he probably should learn what happened at the small council when he left. It would be a good gauge of Robert's wrath.

Petyr began with his usual unimportant small talk. He finally got around to providing useful information.

"After you stormed out, it was left to me to convince them not to hire the Faceless Man," he said casually. "Instead, Varys will quietly let it be known that we'll make a lord of whoever does in the Targaryen girl."

"So now we grant titles to assassins."

The small man shrugged. "Titles are cheap. The Faceless Men are expensive. If truth be told, I did the Targaryen girl more good than you will with all your talk of honor. Let some sellsword drunk on visions of lordship try to kill her. Likely he'll make a botch of it, and afterward the Dothraki will be on their guard."

Ned shook himself.

Gods be good, it echoes what Sansa said. He was in a position to save the girl through misdirection instead of honest counsel.

"You have my thanks then, Lord Baelish. You did what I could not."

Now it was Baelish's turn to raise his eyebrows and smile broadly.

"Ah, you Starks can learn!" He gave a merry bow. "I am happy to have been of service, and now allow me to do one more as well. Your man Jory has been searching for a brothel, one that Lord Stannis and our former Hand had visited. If you ask nicely, I won't even tell Cat."

Ned frowned, then sighed. Perhaps one last attempt to learn of the reason for Jon Arryn's death. He nodded and summoned Jory and a couple of guards. They arrived at a brothel run by a woman named Chataya. The reason Jon and Stannis had visited was the same as the blacksmith: another one of Robert's bastards. Another one with dark hair.

It doesn't matter, but at what point do the odds grow too slim.

"Lord Baelish, you have proven to be a friend. You helped guard my wife's presence in the city, you provided useful paths for me to investigate, and you have helped shield an innocent girl and her unborn babe. Here is where our paths part. I will return to Winterfell. If you should ever find yourself in my lands, you are welcome at my table."

He meant it too. Ned could never approve of his ways, but he had helped him, and likely saved the Targaryen girl's life, even if the means bothered him.

"And Lord Arryn's death left unsolved? Forgive me, Lord Stark, but I am dissatisfied with that. Jon Arryn gave me much, even brought me to King's Landing. I am the droll fellow who rubs two silver stags together to create a golden dragon, but I can level no accusation toward the Lannisters and keep my head."

"I now suspect much, and can prove nothing. Robert will no longer listen to me, and I am not even sure I should speak on something I lack certainty for."

Baelish leaned in. "What do you suspect? Please, if you count me as friend, tell me at least."

Ned exhaled. "I believe Jon was looking to have Robert set Cersei aside. He was gathering evidence to prove that Cersei's children may not be his. Whether that was due to Jon believing Cersei gave Robert horns, or if it was just a ploy in this damnable game of thrones, I know not. And as I am no longer Hand, there is nothing I can do about it anyway."

A strained smile appeared on the man's face.

"You suspect Tommen and Myrcella are bastards and you will do… nothing?"

"There is no guarantee that they are, and we both well know that Robert has no qualms about murdering children," Ned replied sharply.

Baelish had a rare uncertain look upon his features.

"Lord Stark, I am at a loss. At least share what evidence you have gathered with the king. The book, the blacksmith's apprentice, the babe here, the boy at Storm's End."

"How did you know about the book?" Ned said with sudden suspicion.

Baelish blinked, hesitated, and then whispered. "Do you think Grand Maester Pycelle did not share every bit of his conversation with you with others? The queen already knows about what you have been doing. As does every other person who pays coin for word of the comings and goings of the Red Keep. I told you this on the first day."

He did, but he is also pushing hard for me to take action and seemingly had all the pieces already.

It dawned on him.

"You knew and yet you had me run around this city and expose myself and my house, when you already knew."

"I suspected, but would you have believed me if you had not retraced Lord Arryn's steps? You had little trust in me when we first met. Understandable," he said with a smirk, "but if I had just told you outright, you would always wonder if I was just manipulating you."

He's dancing. Even now. I must think, but first I must understand his position and 'lock down' his view without sly deceptions, veiled words, and half-truths.

"No more games. Tell me exactly what you know and why. What you suspect and what specifically you would have me do."

Ned watched as the normally quick-tongued Baelish paused to consider his words.

"I know some things and suspect much, Lord Stark. I know the places that Jon Arryn visited. I know what his household spoke of. How Jon had grown obsessed with learning about breeding hunting hounds. How he began tracking down likely bastards of Robert. I also know there is little love between Cersei and the king. If you ask for proof that it was the Lannisters who poisoned Jon, I have none. If you ask for proof it was the Lannisters who attempted to murder your son, I have none."

His smile didn't reach his eyes.

"As to what you should do? Go to the king with your concerns, but leave my name out of it. You stand on thin ice and I would prefer you do not drag me under. I promised Cat to help you, but I cannot do everything for you. I am not the Hand."

"And neither am I."

Ned returned then with his guards back to the Tower of the Hand. No sooner had he arrived than Arya confronted him.

"Father, please, can Syrio come with us?"

"If the man is willing, yes."

Arya ran up and hugged him, and Ned enjoyed the feeling of managing to make someone happy. That night his rest was for once not troubled, and in the morn, Ser Barristan Selmy and a double company of soldiers awaited to escort Ned and his daughters to the king.

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Chapter 1023 - 4-6