The night crept in, deep and indifferent, as candles were quietly lit inside the tents along the edge of the camp.
Jon stood outside, holding Ghost by his side. The direwolf watched the approaching figures with wary eyes, alert for any suspicious strangers nearby.
Eddard found the location well chosen. It was secluded, far removed from the King's tent. No one wanted a dead knight lying too close to the King, after all. Without Jon to guide him, Eddard would have struggled to find the place.
The knight of the Vale lay still. The Silent Sisters were tending to his body, preparing him for burial. Ser Andar, a fellow man of the Vale, had come to pay his respects to this unfortunate knight he had never met.
"I've come at a bad time," Eddard said, looking at the body of the young man. He had been Lord Arryn's squire. Not particularly handsome, but death had softened the roughness of his features.
Eddard studied Hugh's face. Had this boy lost his life because of him, cut down by the Mountain's lance? He had never even spoken properly with him, and now he never would.
"Everyone, leave," Eddard said.
The Silent Sisters paused in their work. They had been preparing to dress Hugh in a fine velvet coat.
"You stay, Ser Andar," Eddard added, keeping the heir of House Royce behind.
"Yes, my lord," Andar replied.
Outside, Ghost grew restless, as if he too could sense death lingering nearby.
"I mourn this young man as well. He longed for honor, yet what he met was the Mountain," Andar said with quiet sorrow.
"He was too young, and too consumed by honor. But we have other matters to discuss," Eddard said softly.
"What matters?" Andar asked, his guard rising.
"Lady Lysa. You must swear that every word spoken here remains strictly confidential." Eddard met his eyes. "I respect Lord Royce's character. I trust his son will not lie to me."
"My lord, you have my word. We do not forget our oaths. If you must know… things are in a poor state. The Lady seems entirely untouched by her husband's death." Andar hesitated, then spread his hands helplessly.
"The heir, Robert, is already of an age, yet he cannot be separated from his mother. He still nurses like an infant. He is frail and weak, and we are all deeply concerned. What is more troubling is his mother. Lady Lysa has grown far heavier than before, yet she surrounds herself daily with flatterers. Every one of them hopes to bed her and rule the Vale at her side."
Eddard's face remained impassive, though anger and doubt churned beneath the surface.
What did Lady Lysa think she was doing with her power? What did she think of the truth behind Jon's death? Did she truly grieve for her husband at all?
Eddard faced danger on all sides in King's Landing, while she lived in the Vale as if nothing had happened.
He knew the truth of Jon Arryn and Lysa's marriage. It had never been a happy one. The age difference between them was vast. Jon had even been older than Lysa's father, Great Lord Hoster. But it had been a political match. Jon had needed Hoster's forces; otherwise, he would never have married a noblewoman who had suffered a miscarriage before the wedding.
But Lysa… did she truly feel nothing for Jon?
Eddard found himself forced to consider that final, cold possibility.
"Well then, young man, you must know who these suitors are."
Andar did know. Lord Yohn had often spoken of them with scorn, calling them vain and spineless.
"Great lords, lesser lords, knights, adventurers… all of them, Lord Eddard. They've gathered at the Eyrie. Sweet words can make anyone forget their grief, but Lady Lysa seems to have forgotten especially quickly. It's said that two men have won her favor above the rest. The older one is Lord Hunter. His age even surpasses that of Lord Jon Arryn. The younger is Lyn Corbray, a dangerous and vain swordsman."
Ser Andar finished quietly.
"There's one more person you haven't mentioned, young man," Eddard said, looking at Ser Andar.
"You mean Littlefinger? None of the others come close to his reputation. Many say he has an improper relationship with Lady Lysa, and she favors him above all. My lord, don't blame me for saying it… but Lady Lysa truly values him. She even helped him rise rapidly in King's Landing. He's a man of low birth who climbed his way up through her, all while deceiving the old Great Lord."
At the mention of Littlefinger, Andar's face showed clear disdain.
"As for these rumors and scandals, I don't need the details. I only want to know whether they're true or fabricated," Eddard said.
"That's hard to say, my lord. But it's certain that Lady Lysa favors Littlefinger. As for their past… perhaps people simply share a common dislike for him as a rival."
"Well said, boy." Eddard patted Ser Andar on the shoulder. He would need to think this over carefully. "I should be going."
Lysa does not love Arryn. She may even despise him. And yet, her ties to Littlefinger run deep.
Eddard committed those words to memory.
By all rights, Lysa should have been his ally. But now, that seemed little more than wishful thinking. If she held no affection for Jon, why had she drawn him to King's Landing?
As Eddard stepped out of the tent, he ran into the old knight Barristan.
"Lord Eddard?"
"Ser Barristan?" Eddard was surprised. The old knight had come here as well?
"I intend to keep vigil for the boy. I came to see him first. He has no one to rely on, not a single friend or relative, only a mother back in the Vale," Ser Barristan said.
"Hugh served Lord Jon as a squire for four years," he continued. "The King knighted him before we set north, in honor of Lord Jon. The boy wanted nothing more than to be a knight, but… I fear he wasn't ready."
Eddard looked at the blue cloak embroidered with a crescent moon, now soaked with blood. He could not bring himself to look at the knight's face. If the boy's mother asked why her son had died, could he truly say it was for the honor of the Hand of the King?
"He should never have died. War is no game."
"But war does not wait for our consent. That armor is worth a fair sum. Not ornate, but solid. Ser Hugh had it made especially for the tournament."
"Then perhaps it should be sent to his mother," Eddard said.
"Come, Lord Eddard. The King's feast has yet to begin. Will you join me?" Barristan asked.
"Thank you for your kindness, but I will not attend, Ser Barristan."
Eddard declined. At that moment, he only wanted to leave the camp and let the night swallow him whole.
"Let's go."
He left with Jon, his thoughts tangled and heavy.
Lysa. Littlefinger.
Neither of them could be trusted. At the very least, both were capable of harboring dangerous intentions.
...
On the other side of the camp, Sansa felt as though this was the most dazzling day of her life. She had watched the tournament, seen the knights from her stories charging across the field.
Two men in particular captured her attention.
One was the Knight of Flowers, who had presented her with a red rose.
"No victory, however great, could rival your beauty."
He was every bit as handsome as the stories claimed, with soft brown curls and eyes like molten gold.
Tomorrow, he would ride again, competing against the Lannister Kingslayer and the Mountain of the Lannister brothers for the championship. Sansa hoped with all her heart that he would win. After all, the Knight of Flowers was truly handsome.
The other man, however, was quite strange.
He was short, middle-aged, with a pointed little beard and streaks of silver at his temples, about the same age as Eddard. He seemed to know Sansa's mother. Later, someone told her he was Lord Petyr, the master of coin on the Small Council.
His behavior was strange as well.
Before leaving, he had said to Sansa, "Your mother is the queen of love and beauty in my heart. You've inherited her red hair."
He reached out and gently touched a lock of her auburn hair, his fingers brushing her cheek, before turning and walking away.
What a strange man.
Sansa frowned to herself. The gesture had felt far too familiar, almost improper. She wondered if she ought to tell her father. The man held great status and knew her mother, yet his behavior had been undeniably rude.
But she had little time to dwell on it.
The King's feast was about to begin, and the crowds were already dispersing. By the riverside, the King's courtiers and nobles were gathering to dine. Six enormous wild oxen turned slowly over roasting spits, having been cooked for hours. Kitchen boys hurried about, basting the meat with butter and herbs until the air was thick with rich, savory aromas.
Eddard was not among them. He had no fondness for attending a tournament held in his own name.
Sansa and Septa Mordane were seated in the honored section atop a temporary platform, just to the left of the King and Queen.
This was the kind of courtly life Sansa adored. Never in Winterfell had she felt such splendor.
Her mother had always taught her to grow into a graceful lady and marry a great nobleman. But Sansa had never dared imagine she might one day become a Queen.
It felt like the highest honor imaginable.
Sansa felt lonely, because she alone had come as Winterfell's representative. Even Arya was not here.
Forget it. That wild girl Arya would only have embarrassed me if she'd come. As for Jon, a bastard has even less place at an occasion like this.
Sansa decided not to think about Arya anymore and simply enjoy this brief moment of glory.
When Joffrey took the seat at her right hand, her throat tightened. Ever since that incident, he had not spoken a single word to her, and she had not dared speak to him either. Sansa did not think she hated Joffrey. The real blame lay not with him, but with the Queen, Arya, and Jon. If not for Jon and Arya, nothing would have happened that night.
And tonight, hating Joffrey felt more impossible than ever, because he was simply too beautiful.
He wore a dark blue doublet embroidered with two rows of golden lion heads, and on his brow rested a slender crown of gold and sapphires. His hair shone like beaten gold. Sansa looked at him and could not help trembling all over, afraid he might ignore her, or worse, speak sharply to her again and leave her running off in tears.
Instead, Joffrey smiled, took her hand, and kissed it, as gallant as any Prince in a song.
"My dear lady, Ser Loras has excellent taste. He knows who the true beauty is."
Sansa felt like the happiest girl in the world. Joffrey was being so kind to her. She thought she ought to keep up the appearance of a proper lady, but inside her heart was blooming with joy, fluttering like a startled doe.
"Ser Loras is a true knight, my Prince. Do you think he might win tomorrow?"
"No," Joffrey said, with perfect confidence. "My dog will deal with him. And if not, there's my uncle Jaime. In a few more years, once I'm old enough to enter the lists, I'll deal with all of them myself."
There was nothing to fault in Joffrey's manners. He ordered a bottle of chilled Dornish summer red and personally poured a cup not only for Sansa, but for Septa Mordane as well.
Sansa drank cup after cup of the Dornish red, yet never felt truly drunk. Instead, she felt dazed and enchanted, intoxicated by all the lovely things around her. Tonight, the banks of the Blackwater seemed like a feast in motion, and Sansa saw a beauty she had never even dared dream of witnessing. It was a beauty that bleak, ancient Winterfell could never replace. Never in Winterfell had she seen such a feast.
The music of the singers was so lovely, making the evening dusk all the more beautiful. Jugglers tossed burning sticks through the air, and the King's foolish court jester, the flat-faced Moon Boy, danced on stilts in motley, mocking everyone present. His sharp tongue and comic skill truly had no equal. His jests grew bolder and bolder, until even the High Septon became a target.
Joffrey kept Sansa entertained, talking with her, coaxing smiles from her, praising her again and again. With the stories of court and all his flattering words, Sansa felt herself forgetting everything, all the rules, all her restraint.
Dish after dish was set before them, many of them things Sansa had never tasted before, honey-garlic snails, and trout freshly caught from the river and roasted to perfection. The Prince even served her himself, cutting off a piece from the portion meant for the Queen.
As more and more courses were brought out, the King's voice grew louder and louder. At first there was booming laughter, but by the end Sansa heard shouting. It drowned out everything, the clatter of plates, the music, all of it.
"Shut your mouth," the King roared, glaring at the Queen. Goblet in hand, he was drunk beyond measure. "You stinking woman, don't think you can order me about. I'm the King here, understand? If I say we fight tomorrow, then we fight tomorrow."
The King's words seemed to carry a strange power, freezing every face at the feast.
Sansa saw them all staring in shock: the old knight Barristan, Great Lord Renly, the small, slight Lord Petyr.
"You are truly impressive, Your Grace. And soon you'll be a grandfather as well." Cersei's face had gone utterly pale, yet she suddenly spoke back. "That is something I ought to congratulate you on."
"Shut up, shut up!" the King shouted, pointing a finger at Cersei.
"Isn't it good news?" Cersei pressed on. "Varys's information can hardly be false. That girl is pregnant. That should be a good thing. Or are you afraid? Don't tell me you can't even lift a lance anymore."
Joffrey's face darkened at once, and he kept muttering, "Traitor."
Sansa had a fair idea who they were talking about: Joffrey's bastard older brother, the traitor the King kept cursing. The blood of a bastard carried lust and ambition. Everyone in King's Landing knew that the mercenary king had killed thousands upon thousands and now meant to seize the Iron Throne alongside his dragonblood bride.
"Shut your mouth. As long as my warhammer is in my hand, no one can stop me." The King thumped his chest and glared at Cersei. "Warships. I want warships now."
"Then I truly look forward to seeing that, Your Grace. Not just another outburst at your wife in your own hall, but an actual victory in war."
"I'll win tomorrow's contest first, then I'll deal with that traitor myself and kill off the remnants of the evil dragon. I am a warrior." With a bang, the King smashed his goblet down on the table, splashing wine all across his satin tunic.
"Your Grace, this..." The old knight's brow was knotted tight. Kinslaying was unforgivable, and so was the killing of a pregnant woman. This could not be allowed.
Jaime reached out to seize the King's shoulder, but the King violently shrugged him off, sending Jaime staggering to the ground.
The King burst into wild laughter. "Some great knight you are. I can still knock you flat on your face. Remember that, Kingslayer."
The Kingslayer's expression turned ugly. He climbed back to his feet and said, "Yes, Your Grace."