The godswood in the Red Keep was a lot smaller than the one at Winterfell.
Eddard stood beneath the heart tree, staring up at the scattered patches of sky showing between the branches.
It was just an ordinary dark oak—no carved face—but he could still hear the leaves whispering in the wind the same way they did back home on those long northern afternoons when he sat alone beneath the weirwood.
"Fine wind," he murmured.
He lowered his gaze to the courtyard.
Prince Joffrey was bent over a small copper kettle, stirring spiced red wine. Cinnamon and nutmeg mixed with the sweet tang of raisins, drifting on the breeze.
"Wind follows the tiger, clouds follow the dragon," the boy muttered. "Dragon and tiger heroes rule the sky."
Eddard shook his head silently.
Westeros had no tigers, and the dragons were all dead.
"Please, Lord Eddard." Joffrey gripped the handle and poured the deep-red liquid into two silver cups.
Eddard took one and stared at the dried fruit settled at the bottom.
Joffrey had invited him for green-plum wine.
It was early in the year 298 AC, though. The plum trees had only just bloomed. There wasn't a single fresh green plum in all of King's Landing, so the boy had made do with last year's dried ones.
"Your Grace didn't bring me here just to watch a comet and drink spiced wine," Eddard said.
Joffrey smiled and lifted his cup. "Lord Eddard, you've done something rather big lately."
Eddard didn't answer.
He simply tilted his head back and drained the cup in one go.
The sour bite of the dried plums mixed with the sharp spices burned down his throat.
It tasted exactly like yesterday's council meeting—bitter and harsh.
That was a hatred that should have ended sixteen years ago.
Aerys was dead. Rhaegar was dead. Elia and the children were dead.
Yet Robert still couldn't let it go. His furious roar still echoed in Eddard's ears.
"Go back to your frozen shit-hole Winterfell!"
And then Tywin Lannister had stormed in.
"Your wife has seized my son!"
In that moment Eddard had understood.
He was angry at Catelyn for acting so recklessly.
But he was angrier at himself.
He should have made her wait, made her investigate first.
He should have seen it coming—the dagger, the letter from the Eyrie, the rumors in King's Landing, Littlefinger's slip at the tourney.
Every piece had been there. He just hadn't wanted to connect them.
He hadn't wanted to believe Lysa would betray her own husband, that Littlefinger could weave such a vicious web.
He hadn't wanted to accept that the storm was already here and there was no stopping it.
And now, beneath a heart tree that didn't even belong to the North, he faced a prince who had only just passed his twelfth nameday.
The boy's father was a Baratheon. His mother was a Lannister.
Eddard worried about the war that was coming.
Yet all he wanted was to run—run back to Winterfell, satisfy his own private desires, and prepare for whatever fighting lay ahead.
Joffrey refilled his cup. "The godswood has the old gods watching. No one likes to lie in front of a heart tree."
Eddard glanced at the oak again.
It stood silent, faceless, eyeless—yet he felt something watching all the same.
It was the only place in the Red Keep where he felt any peace.
"What exactly do you want to talk about, Your Grace?"
Joffrey lowered his eyelids.
For one brief moment Eddard thought he saw real weariness on that too-young face—exhaustion that came from somewhere deep inside.
"You've only been here a short while and you already feel you can't stay," Joffrey said quietly. "Since you're leaving anyway, tell me this."
"Among all the lords and ladies at court, which ones should I worry about? Which ones are the real traitors poisoning the realm?"
Eddard's fingers tightened on the silver cup.
"How could I speak ill of the king's council?"
"Whatever leaves your mouth stays in my ears," Joffrey said, catching his sleeve. "Not even the Spider's little birds can hear us here."
"You've seen it yourself—the constant friction between my mother's family and my father's, the way certain people keep stirring the pot."
He let out a heavy sigh.
That sigh sounded far too old for a boy's chest.
Eddard studied him—the eyes carrying a burden they shouldn't have to bear yet, the face trying so hard to stay composed.
He thought of his own son back in Winterfell, blinking back tears as they said goodbye.
He reached out and gently touched Joffrey's cheek.
This boy was younger than Robb.
But Robb had brothers, Maester Luwin, and the thick walls of Winterfell to shield him.
Joffrey had only the Red Keep—surrounded by schemers and wolves.
Eddard withdrew his hand and stayed silent for a long time.
"Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin," he finally said. "He lies as easily as he breathes. He treats the royal treasury as his personal purse, sells offices for profit, and lines his own pockets at every turn."
"He is a treacherous little snake."
Joffrey shook his head.
"Littlefinger? He's just using clever tricks—with silent permission—to plug the holes in the crown's accounts. At worst he's a smart parasite."
Eddard pressed his lips together.
"Varys, the Master of Whisperers. He claims to serve the realm's peace, yet he says much and does little. No one knows what he truly wants. He is a traitor."
"The Spider…" Joffrey drew the word out. "He does withhold information and keeps his little birds chattering everywhere. But he's mostly just trying to carve out a safe place for himself."
Joffrey looked up, eyes calm. "He's a riddle, but not a traitor."
Eddard lowered his head, thought for a while, and began listing names—Pycelle, Janos Slynt, even the negligent Renly and Stannis.
Joffrey brushed each one aside with a faint note of disappointment in his voice.
Then Eddard understood.
He drew a deep breath and spoke the name that had been sitting on his tongue for days.
"Tywin Lannister."
"He is ambitious, greedy, and utterly without honor. He will do anything to achieve his goals. Though he holds no office, he repeatedly challenges royal authority, plants his own people throughout King's Landing, and schemes to control the crown."
Eddard looked straight into Joffrey's eyes—those same Lannister-green eyes.
"Your Grace, he is your grandfather."
"But you must be wary of him."
For a heartbeat Joffrey froze.
Eddard saw the real emotion flicker in those eyes—the look of someone who had waited a long time to finally hear the truth spoken aloud.
Joffrey lowered his head.
"Lord Tywin," he said softly, "is indeed a cold and ruthless man."
"His power rests on the crown's debts and mutual interest. My father acknowledges that strength and uses it to hold the realm together."
He gave a bitter little smile.
"Compared to the others, Lord Tywin is far more dangerous. But he and the crown need each other. They see one another as necessary allies."
Eddard started to speak.
Joffrey suddenly leaned forward, elbows on the stone table, bringing his face close.
Those green eyes burned bright in the fading light.
"Lord Eddard has named so many names," he said, "yet you left out the one that matters most."
A spike of dread shot through Eddard.
"Who?"
Joffrey's voice was perfectly calm.
"The greatest traitor in all of Westeros."
"The one doing the most damage to the realm, the one who acts without restraint."
"The man who sits on the Iron Throne."
"My father."
"Robert Baratheon."
A jagged bolt of white lightning ripped across the sky, bleaching the entire courtyard bone-white.
BOOM!
Thunder crashed overhead like the gods themselves had answered.