Chapter Text
Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Runestone, The Vale
The brine stung Ned's nostrils, sharp and foreign after years breathing Northern pine and snow-melt. Gray stone towers rose from the rocky coastline, their ancient walls etched with the runes of the First Men. Ned stood at the bow, his cloak billowing in the stiff breeze off the Shivering Sea. Behind him, covered by a Stark banner, lay the body of Ser Waymar Royce.
I bring a son home to his father in a shroud. The thought sat heavy in Ned's chest. And I am the one who put him there.
As they docked, Ned spotted the bronze-armored honor guard waiting on the pier, the sigil of House Royce—black iron studs on bronze, ringed by runes—displayed prominently on their shields. At their head stood a broad-shouldered man with gray hair and a stern, weathered face. Lord Yohn Royce, called Bronze Yohn for the ancient rune-covered armor he wore, stood tall despite his years.
"Lord Stark," Bronze Yohn called as Ned descended the gangplank. "The Vale welcomes you, though I confess your raven mentioned neither the purpose nor timing of your visit."
Ned clasped Yohn's arm. "Lord Royce. I apologize for the lack of notice. Events have moved quickly."
"You are always welcome at Runestone, regardless." Yohn gestured to a young man beside him. "You remember my son, Andar."
Andar Royce bowed his head respectfully. "Lord Stark."
"And my daughter Ysilla," Yohn continued, indicating a slender young woman with Royce features.
Ned inclined his head to each in turn, the formality of greeting doing little to settle the unease in his stomach. He turned to his men and nodded. Four Stark guardsmen lifted the shrouded body from the ship.
Yohn's expression turned quizzical, then concerned as he noted the shape beneath the direwolf banner.
"I've come to return your son to you, Lord Royce," Ned said quietly.
The color drained from Bronze Yohn's face. Ysilla let out a small gasp, her hand flying to her mouth.
"Waymar?" Yohn's voice had lost its strength.
"I am sorry," Ned said, the words feeling wholly inadequate.
The Stark men carried Waymar's body onto the pier. Ned lifted the banner, revealing the face of the young knight, pale and bloodless. The clean cut across the neck where Ice had severed head from body was impossible to miss.
"Gods be good," Yohn whispered. His knees seemed to buckle for a moment before he caught himself. "Was it wildlings?" His voice hardened with each word. "Those damned savages!"
"Not here," Ned interrupted gently. "We should speak privately."
Andar's face had turned to stone, his jaw clenched so tight Ned could see the muscles working beneath his skin. Ysilla sobbed openly now, her shoulders shaking as she turned away from her brother's corpse.
"Of course," Yohn said, though his eyes never left his son's face. "Andar, see that your brother is taken to the sept."
"My lord," Ned said, "perhaps we could retire to your solar after your son is properly seen to."
Bronze Yohn nodded stiffly. "You will stay with us, of course. For as long as needed."
"I thank you for your hospitality, but I can only remain a day. I sail for Braavos on the morrow, and then to King's Landing."
"Braavos?" Yohn's brow furrowed despite his grief. "Surely whatever business you have can wait until—"
"It cannot," Ned said firmly. "But I would explain everything, once we are alone."
They walked in silence to the castle, the body of Ser Waymar carried behind them. Servants and household knights stopped to stare, whispers following in their wake. The Royce maester hurried forward, his chain clinking, only to halt abruptly at the sight of the procession.
In the courtyard, Yohn gave instructions for his son's body to be prepared. Ysilla was led away by her handmaidens, her weeping echoing against the stone walls. Ned stood awkwardly, an intruder in this family's grief.
"I am sorry to bring such tidings," he said to Yohn. "Ser Waymar was a fine young man."
"He was," Yohn agreed, his voice hollow. "Though perhaps too fine for the Wall. I should never have allowed it."
"He died bravely," Ned offered, though he knew the half-truth for what it was. Brave or not, the manner of his death and what came after is what matters now.
"We will speak after," Yohn said, turning away. "Andar, when you have seen to your brother, join us in my solar."
The solar was warm, a stark contrast to the chill outside. A fire roared in the hearth, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Maps and ledgers covered the heavy oak table, the business of ruling temporarily forgotten. Yohn Royce sat behind it, his fingers steepled before him. Andar stood by the window, looking out over the sea, his back rigid with tension.
"Now, Lord Stark," Yohn said, his voice carefully controlled. "Tell me how my son died."
Ned took a deep breath. "Before I begin, I must speak of something else. You've heard, I assume, of the crown's new taxes on the North?"
Yohn frowned at the apparent change of subject. "Yes, a strange decision. Triple the usual rate, I'm told. It makes little sense for Robert to do such a thing, especially with winter coming."
"It wasn't Robert," Ned said. "It was Tywin Lannister, acting as Hand."
"Ah," Yohn nodded. "That explains it, though not why. You're traveling to King's Landing to contest this?"
"I am," Ned confirmed. "But first, Braavos."
"And this relates to my son how?" Yohn's patience was clearly wearing thin.
"It relates to what I found at Castle Black, and why I was the one to bring Waymar home." Ned leaned forward. "Lord Royce, I was the one who took your son's head."
Andar spun from the window, his hand going to his sword hilt. "You what?"
Yohn's face darkened with fury as he rose to his feet. "Explain yourself, Stark, before I forget our friendship."
"Please," Ned raised his hands. "I beg you to hear me out."
"Then speak quickly," Yohn growled, remaining standing.
"I traveled to Castle Black to investigate reports of unusual wildling activity," Ned began. "A deserter from the Night's Watch claimed to have seen things beyond the Wall—things from the old stories. White Walkers. The dead rising."
"Madness," Andar scoffed.
"I thought so too," Ned continued. "Until Lord Commander Mormont showed me your son's body."
Ned described what he had seen—the preserved corpse kept in Castle Black's ice cells, how Mormont had explained that Waymar was lost on a ranging beyond the Wall. How his companion had returned, half-mad with terror, speaking of creatures with eyes like blue stars that could not be killed with normal steel.
"The man deserted," Ned said. "I took his head myself, believing him a coward. I was wrong."
"You speak of grumpkins and snarks," Yohn said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"I speak of what I saw with my own eyes, Lord Royce." Ned's voice was steady. "While I was with the Lord Commander, examining your son's body, the corpse... rose. Its eyes burned blue in the darkness. It attacked Mormont. I drew Ice and severed its head to save the Lord Commander's life."
A heavy silence filled the room. Andar's hand had fallen from his sword, his face pale.
"You expect me to believe this tale?" Yohn finally asked, though his voice trembled slightly.
"I swear it by the old gods and the new," Ned said. "By my honor and the honor of House Stark. Your son died in service to the realm, facing an enemy thought long vanquished. The Night's Watch believes the White Walkers have returned, and the wildlings are fleeing south to escape them."
Yohn sank back into his chair. "Gods be good."
"The Lord Commander showed me reports—abandoned wildling villages, ranging parties that never returned, strange sightings in the night. Winter is coming, Lord Royce, and it brings something worse than cold."
"If what you say is true," Andar said, "why go to Braavos before King's Landing? Surely the King must hear of this immediately."
Ned sighed. "King Robert... has changed. He may not believe me without proof, and I have none to give him. I travel to Braavos to seek a loan from the Iron Bank on behalf of the Night's Watch. They need men, supplies, weapons. The North cannot bear this burden alone, especially with these new taxes."
"And after?" Yohn asked.
"After, I go to King's Landing to convince Robert to send aid to the Wall and rescind Tywin's taxes." Ned shook his head. "It will not be easy."
Yohn studied Ned's face for a long moment. "I have known you many years, Ned. You are not a man given to flights of fancy or falsehood." He rubbed a hand over his face. "If you say you've seen the dead walk, then the dead walk."
"I wish it were not so," Ned said softly.
Andar stepped forward. "Lord Stark, I would accompany you."
Both Ned and Yohn turned to him in surprise.
"What?" Yohn demanded.
"Father, I—" Andar's voice caught. "Waymar was vain and sometimes foolish, but he was my brother. I loved him. If what Lord Stark says is true, then I want to help stop whatever killed him."
"Absolutely not," Yohn said.
"I am not asking your permission, Father." Andar's jaw set in a familiar, stubborn line. "I am telling you my intention."
Ned watched the silent battle of wills between father and son. He recognized the determination in Andar's eyes—it was the same look Robb had worn when insisting on joining the hunt for wildling raiders.
"Lord Royce," Ned said quietly, "your son does you credit. His sword would be welcome."
Yohn closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, Ned saw the resignation there. "Waymar wanted glory. Look where it got him."
"This isn't about glory," Andar insisted. "It's about duty. If these creatures are real, then every house in Westeros must stand against them."
Silence stretched between them until finally Bronze Yohn nodded. "Very well. But you will take twenty of our best men with you."
"There's no need—" Ned began.
"There is every need," Yohn cut him off. "If the dead walk and the Others have returned, then you'll need every sword you can get. Besides," his mouth twisted in a grim smile, "I'd rather my son have proper protection if he insists on running toward danger."
Andar bowed his head. "Thank you, Father."
Ned looked between them, feeling the weight of responsibility settle more heavily on his shoulders. Another son to protect. Another life in my hands. But he simply nodded. "We sail at first light tomorrow. The Iron Bank does not like to be kept waiting."
"Nor does death, it seems," Yohn said grimly. "I will have provisions prepared for your journey."
As they departed the solar, Ned caught Andar's eye. "Are you certain of this course, Ser Andar? What we face may be beyond anything we can imagine."
Andar's expression was solemn. "My brother died in darkness, Lord Stark, facing an enemy he could not understand. I would bring light to that darkness, for his sake and for the realm."
Ned nodded, respecting the young man's resolve even as he worried for him. The pack survives, he thought. But what happens when winter brings foes that would devour us all?
Kingslanding, The Crownlands
Tyrion settled into a chair at the far end of the small council table, well away from where his father would sit. The small council chamber smelled of beeswax and parchment, with a hint of the perfumes that Varys favored. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, painting golden bars across the polished table.
Lord Varys occupied his usual seat, hands tucked into his voluminous sleeves, his powdered face betraying nothing. Grand Maester Pycelle dozed in his chair, his great white beard rising and falling with each breath. Littlefinger lounged with the casual ease of a man who believed himself indispensable.
Only Ser Barristan Selmy looked remotely uncomfortable with Tyrion's presence, offering him a stiff nod before returning his attention to the papers before him.
"Are we waiting for His Grace to grace us with his presence?" Tyrion asked, reaching for the flagon of Arbor gold. The wine was cool and crisp on his tongue.
His father entered just as Tyrion set down his cup. Tywin Lannister strode to the head of the table with the same purpose he did everything—as if the gods themselves had ordained it.
"The king will not be joining us," Tywin said, his voice clipped. "We are waiting for someone else."
Tyrion noted the glance that passed between Littlefinger and Varys. Pycelle jerked awake, blinking rheumy eyes.
"Who might that be, my lord Hand?" Littlefinger inquired, his fingers steepled beneath his pointed chin.
The question was answered by the sound of the door swinging open. Prince Joffrey strutted in, a sneer already fixed upon his face. The Hound followed like a silent shadow.
"Grandfather," Joffrey said, not bothering to acknowledge anyone else. His gaze fell on Tyrion, and his sneer deepened. "What is he doing here?"
"Your Grace," Tywin said with a slight emphasis that made it clear who truly held authority in the room. "Tyrion is here at my request. Sit. Listen. Learn."
Joffrey's face flushed, but he dropped into the chair at Tywin's right hand. So the cub is learning when to bare his claws and when to sheathe them, Tyrion thought. A pity the lesson won't last.
"I believe Lord Renly had left for the Reach but where is our Master of Ships?" Tyrion's mismatched eyes found Varys. "Has Stannis decided the royal fleet can sail itself?"
The eunuch's soft hands emerged from his sleeves, spreading in a gesture of ignorance. "Lord Stannis departed for Dragonstone with considerable haste, my lord. My little birds sing many songs, but none could tell me why." His voice held that particular note of regret he employed when genuinely puzzled. "Most irregular, I must say. He took only a handful of men and left no word of his return."
"How very like my uncle," Joffrey said, his voice dripping contempt. "Always scurrying back to his rock when things don't go his way."
Ser Barristan shifted in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. The old knight's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly—a man who'd served three kings struggling to hold his tongue before a fourth.
"Now," Tywin said, "let us begin with the crown's finances."
Littlefinger unfurled a scroll. "The tourney celebrating your appointment as Hand cost the treasury some forty thousand gold dragons, my lord. A magnificent spectacle, but..." he trailed off with a practiced sigh.
"But costly," Tywin finished for him. "And the crown's debts?"
"We owe three million to House Lannister," Littlefinger said with a faint smile toward Tyrion. "Nearly two million to the Iron Bank of Braavos. Eight hundred thousand to the Tyroshi Trading Cartel. And recently, a loan of four hundred thousand from House Tyrell to finance the royal fleet's expansion."
Tyrion watched his father's face harden. The Old Lion doesn't like owing the Roses anything, he thought.
"Reduce all unnecessary expenditures," Tywin ordered. "The royal household will need to exercise restraint."
Littlefinger's smile didn't waver. "The king has already commissioned a new hunting lodge, and the queen has ordered several feasts for the coming moons. They will not be pleased."
"I will handle the king and queen," Tywin said in a tone that brooked no argument. "What of the taxes from the North?"
Now we come to it, Tyrion thought.
"Lord Stark has remitted only one-third of the new tax rate," Littlefinger said. "A raven arrived yesterday claiming they require the funds for increased wildling activity and fortifications for winter."
"The tax is new," Tywin said. "They will pay in full in time."
"My lord," Littlefinger began, "perhaps if we—"
"They will pay," Tywin cut him off. "Lord Stark is traveling to King's Landing to discuss the matter personally."
That caught Tyrion's attention. His father hadn't mentioned Ned Stark was coming south.
"Lord Varys," Tywin continued, "what news of the Targaryen girl?"
The eunuch tilted his head. "Alas, my little birds have lost track of her, my lord Hand. She disappeared from Pentos before her wedding to Khal Drogo. Ser Jorah Mormont is missing as well."
"She's of no consequence without her brother or an army," Tywin dismissed. "Any other matters requiring the council's attention?"
Varys cleared his throat delicately. "There are some... unusual tidings from the Reach, my lord."
Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly. "Go on."
"An incident at Oakenshield that Lord Hewett seems determined to keep quiet. Were it not for my little birds, it might have remained so." Varys paused, his eyes flicking briefly to Tyrion. "It seems that Jon Snow, Lord Stark's bastard, visited Oakenshield with a small retinue."
Tyrion sat straighter in his chair. What business would the Bastard of Winterfell have in the Reach?
"Jon Snow?" Ser Barristan asked, clearly surprised. "I offered to take the boy as my squire. Lord Stark refused."
Joffrey snorted. "A bastard squiring for the Lord Commander? How absurd."
Tyrion observed Tywin's face carefully. His father's expression hadn't changed, but his fingers had stilled on the table.
"Curious that Lord Stark would allow his bastard to travel so far south," Tywin said.
"Indeed," Varys agreed. "More curious still is what happened during his visit. One of Snow's companions, a man named Luke Skywalker, apparently attacked a Westerlands merchant named Roland Lanett. Then Snow's party fled, taking Lord Hewett's bastard daughter Falia with them."
Skywalker. The man who beat me at cyvasse and claimed to be a tutor to the Stark children.
"A squabble between a bastard girl and visiting northmen," Tywin said dismissively. "Has Lord Hewett requested crown intervention?"
"He has not, my lord," Varys replied. "But I have not yet mentioned the strangest part of the tale. According to Roland Lanett, this Luke Skywalker used... sorcery."
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter circled the table.
"Sorcery?" Pycelle scoffed. "Preposterous."
"What manner of sorcery?" Tyrion asked, unable to contain his curiosity.
Varys smiled at him, the expression never reaching his eyes. "Lanett claims Skywalker lifted him into the air without touching him and threw him against the ceiling. More remarkably, he reportedly used this same power to destroy part of the harbor during their escape."
More laughter, though Tyrion noticed Tywin wasn't joining in.
"Is there more to this tale?" Tyrion pressed.
"Only that Lord Hewett had offered his bastard daughter's... company... to Lanett as a favor. The northmen apparently objected." Varys spread his hands. "A gallant rescue, one might say."
"Or a kidnapping," Littlefinger added.
Tywin rose, signaling the end of the meeting. "This is clearly a dramatized account from Lord Hewett to hide his embarrassment over a runaway bastard. The crown will not involve itself in such matters."
As the council members stood to leave, Tywin said, "Tyrion, remain."
Joffrey lingered, glaring at Tyrion.
"I will speak with Tyrion alone," Tywin said pointedly.
When the door closed behind them, Tywin turned his cold green eyes on Tyrion. "You know this man Skywalker."
It wasn't a question. Tyrion wondered how his father knew, then dismissed the thought. Tywin Lannister made it his business to know everything.
"I met him briefly at Winterfell," Tyrion admitted. "He claimed to be a tutor for the Stark children. I played cyvasse with him."
"And?"
"And he beat me. Rather handily, I might add, despite claiming to have learned the game only recently." Tyrion rubbed his chin. "He struck me as unusual—foreign, certainly, but with an air of... authority. Not a common tutor."
"Find out everything you can about him," Tywin ordered. "If Lord Stark's bastard is traveling with a sorcerer, I want to know why."
"And if I discover it's true? The sorcery, I mean."
Tywin's expression didn't change. "Then we will deal with that accordingly."
Tyrion stood, assuming he was dismissed, but his father spoke again.
"What progress have you made regarding the assassination attempt on the Stark girl?"
Tyrion hesitated. "I believe Littlefinger may be involved."
For the first time, Tywin looked genuinely interested. "Petyr Baelish? Why?"
"He's been unusually interested in Northern affairs. The tax increase on the North was apparently requested by Cersei, but Littlefinger implemented it with remarkable enthusiasm." Tyrion paused. "And there's something about the Valyrian steel dagger. When I mentioned it, he seemed... prepared for the question."
"Find proof," Tywin said. "If Baelish is working against the crown's interests, I want to know."
"And if my sweet sister is involved?"
His father's jaw tightened. "Find proof of that as well."
Tyrion nodded and turned to leave. As he reached the door, Tywin added, "This Skywalker. Priority goes to learning about him. The Stark bastard traveling to the Reach is concerning enough, but if he's accompanied by someone with unusual abilities..."
"I understand," Tyrion said. "I'll have answers for you soon."
And perhaps some answers for myself as well, he thought as he waddled down the corridor. A bastard, a mysterious foreigner, and talks of sorcery—better entertainment than any mummer's farce.
He needed a drink and a whore, not necessarily in that order. But first, he would find Bronn. The sellsword's investigation of Littlefinger's establishments might have turned up something useful. And if Bronn hadn't found anything yet, Tyrion would point him toward this interesting tale from Oakenshield.
Sorcery, he thought with a snort. Yet he couldn't quite dismiss it entirely. There had been something in Skywalker's eyes when they'd played cyvasse—a strange intensity that Tyrion couldn't place. And now the man was traveling with Ned Stark's bastard.
What game are you playing, Lord Stark? And who exactly is this Luke Skywalker?