Valonqar

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

12th Day of the 11th Moon, 299 AC (3 days later)

Tyrion Lannister, Tyrosh

"Should we join Aegon, m'lord?" Lothor Brune inquired as Tyrion gazed upon the city of Tyrosh from one of the sprawling terraces of the Archon's palace. It had been a difficult three moons, but the marks of war had been mostly erased, and the sprawling streets were flush with former slaves going about their way. 

"Ah yes, join a Pretender who looks more and more like a Blackfyre by the day against my own family with an army I have no right to command backed by a city that I merely administer," Tyrion quipped as he took a heavy gulp from his flask of summerwine.

"Your rightful inheritance has been stolen from you by your sister's children," the knight pointed out. "You are the only living son of Lord Tywin Lannister, and your brother had no children of his own loins. If you don't move now, you will never be able to claim Casterly Rock." 

"Right you are, my dear Ser Lothor, even if Renly was speaking slander!" Lothor's eyebrows jumped so high they disappeared in his mop of dark hair, and for a good reason - it was treason to speak such matters. Though Tyrion was inclined to think that the prancing fop was right, considering the inappropriate closeness between his siblings. They thought they were subtle, and perhaps they were, but Tyrion was neither blind nor deaf. Besides, it sounded just like the moronic thing Jaime and Cersei would do in their prideful hubris. "But war is a dreadful business. Say I do join Aegon, I will forever be known as an oathbreaking kinslayer, and none of the Lords of the West would follow a dwarf untested in battle. Even success would see me doomed to decades of bitter struggle!"

"So, should we send men to King's Landing, then?"

"Nay, my friend. For all of his numerous faults, my late father had one thing right. You only join a war once you're certain of the outcome. He got bogged down in Renly's Rebellion and bore the brunt of the fighting and look where it got him. Nought but death and ashes! War is only lucrative if you live long enough to enjoy it," Tyrion concluded. "No, what we'll do is sit and watch. Once a winner is decided, we'll move in."

Lothor bit a chunk from his apple and tilted his head.

"Is this why you implemented mandatory training for the citizens each seventh day in the Warrior's name?" 

"The city of Tyrosh was useless in martial matters outside the core of its naval fleet," he mused. "A core that was vanquished by the hands of our young Lady Baratheon. You saw firsthand how the city guard outside the small Unsullied core was merely a band of corrupt fools who barely had the strength to wield a sword and lacked the will and discipline to fight. We're on the dangerous border of the Stepstones and have nothing but wishes and luck with which to defend ourselves."

Lothor scoffed. "I'd rather have a good sword in my hand and a sturdy shield in the other." 

Neither Shireen Baratheon nor Eddard Stark had deemed it necessary to strengthen Tyrosh's garrison after the fall of Myr. And with the war raging on in Westeros, Tyrion knew there would be no assistance anytime soon. 

"Indeed. I have decided, my dear friend. We shall sit and watch while the others fight. Enjoy a little bit of peace and the bounty Tyrosh has to offer!" And give them time to build up strength and win the loyalty of the Lannister swords here. They followed his orders reluctantly, but that was it. "Did you not take a wife or two of your own?"

"That I did. And it's time I attend them," the knight responded with an all-too-pleased smile. "I'll be retiring for the day."

Tyrion's gaze continued roaming through the streets of Tyrosh even after Ser Lothor left. Despite his stiff attitude, Lothor was just as much a man as himself; it was good to have a bosom buddy he could trust. 

Alas, even too much pleasure became… tiresome. With an unlimited supply of wine and sex, Tyrion found his thoughts drifting towards the city he was supposed to rule in the name of the new Queen.

Restructuring a city bigger than King's Landing was no easy task, but after rooting all the magisters and fools in positions of power and authority, he had the freedom to act to his heart's content.

The downside was that Tyrion had to build everything from scratch, including loyalty, positions of governance and competence. He had given himself six years to phase out the remnants of slavery slowly but carefully while keeping the business running and shifting the bulk of the trade towards produce and services rather than flesh.

The truth of the matter was that the slave trade was too profitable, allowing even the poorest to turn military might into manpower and wealth, no matter how barren the rock they lived in. Few wanted to toil over the land and risk their lives in the mines like the smallfolk in Westeros. But the thought of slavery was abhorrent to any follower of the Old Gods and the New, and it was not a matter of expediency but support. Judging by Blackfyre's stunt in Volantis, he was against the concept of slavery, much like the rest of Westeros.

Tyrion didn't have strong thoughts on the matter. The question of flesh trade was tricky, but looking at the war raging in Westeros made him evaluate things differently. After a loss, those defeated were no longer even afforded the Black but were slaughtered wholesale. The devastating raids meant to cut the enemy's ability to draw wealth and manpower left nought but bones and ashes in its wake. Only sons of Lords and landed knights were taken hostage, and not even always. 

As crude as the concept of owning another human was, places where slavery was practised would never allow for such slaughter. Defeated men, women, and children were a resource to be plundered, after all. Bones and ash didn't sell, but those who could fight, work, and learn did. And death was so final, while life was full of possibilities, as many a freed slave had risen to prominence in Essos, buying their freedoms, and even became magisters! 

In the end, Tyrion couldn't decide which was more barbaric. Killing everyone to crush your foe's ability to wage war or simply taking them away for slavery?

He quickly shook his head; those were musings for later. He had many matters to deal with. The seeds of redistribution of land and the rise of a new warrior class had been sown, but it would take years for them to ripen. The city faced a food shortage after losing a significant part of its holdings in the Disputed Lands to Lys during the war. Dealing with the thorny issue of slavery was not going to be fast, but Tyrion realised it would take generations to wean the city off of it entirely.

And last but not least, he had to visit his newlywed wife, Meleona. Taking Magister Sarrios' most beautiful daughter for a bride had been the climax of his vengeance. He was tempted to take all of her sisters and their servants, too–they were all pretty, for the late magister had an eye for beauty. Alas, such things would be inappropriate for a follower of the Seven like him. But perhaps it was time to convert to a more… useful faith, one that allowed multiple marriages. A love goddess like Ynanna sounded like a great choice. It would put his ambitions for lordship in peril, but who cared about such petty and troublesome things when wealthy and powerful merchants like Zaphon Sarrios could accumulate greater wealth than the mighty Tywin Lannister?

A legacy etched in gold won by his own two hands, not mined from some piece of rock inherited by virtue of his birth and name. It would prove his deceased father wrong once again–just the thing unbefitting of a Lannister that would infuriate him, even. Perhaps even make Tywin Lannister roll in his grave out of anger.

And if a fool like the former magister could live like a prince and merchant powerhouse of the Narrow Sea, so could Tyrion, who had managed to claim a quarter of the Sarrios wealth. 

14th Day of the 11th Moon, 299 AC (2 days later)

Garlan the Grim, the City of Lys

"It's like an entirely different world," Ser Androw's voice was filled with awe. "I've grown too used to the gaunt men and women fleeing for their lives that huddle up and don't dare even look upon warriors in fear of attracting undue attention."

Most of his men were in two inns by the docks, and he had taken only a dozen men with him deep into the city to get a lay of the surroundings and not attract too much undue attention. There was a second, far more practical reason–the fees to enter the city armed and armoured were five times higher. Even Garlan would hesitate to waste so much gold despite plundering Wyl's treasury.

"War and plague have yet to touch this city," he said. "Most look well-fed and content, even the slaves."

Even the sky was sunny as if to mock the death and destruction that had gripped Westeros. The air was uncharacteristically clean for such a big city. Aside from the scent of salt and fish in the harbour, the inner streets and alleyways were all filled with a fruity or flowery scent wafting out from the numerous gardens around the city, all kept in pristine condition. It reminded him of Highgarden but warmer. Even draft animals were banned outside the marketplaces near the gates, explaining why everything didn't stink like a privy or a stable. The aqueducts from the nearby mountain also helped provide fresh flowing water and a powerful drainage system that expelled any filth into the sea. 

Wide streets with whitewashed cobblestones and walls, exotic trees and hedges like palms, dragon trees, and many others that Garlan had never seen before made everything seem so bright and pure. He saw beautiful manses with heavily decorated marble facades every second street, all aiming to outdo each other with wealth or extravagance.

"And everyone's too damn pretty," Loren muttered as he was gawking around at the passing womenfolk with no shame. And for good reason, each woman was lithe or willowy, with a pretty face, clean skin and teeth, flowing hair and ample chest. "Even the men!"

"Lys was Valyria's pleasure retreat for millennia," Ser Davos Seaworth offered lightly. Garlan's men still kept throwing distrustful glances at the former smuggler, but he did not seem bothered by it. "It is said that only the most beautiful slaves from the four corners of the world ended up here. And then they were bred for beauty–anyone who wasn't pretty enough, no matter how intelligent or skilled in craftsmanship, was sold off to the fighting pits of Slaver's Bay or other cities that valued such talents. A tradition that persists to this day."

Garlan's squire didn't let up.

"But they look so happy," he pointed out. "Faces full of smiles and cheer, as if the city is not at war with the pirates of the Stepstones or the Disputed Lands!"

"But they're winning and receiving a plentiful bounty from it," the former smuggler said. "The First Magister doesn't shy from organising festivals and revelries. I bet you're surprised because of the seemingly happy state of slaves?"

"Err… yes," Loren admitted. "The Seven-Pointed Star teaches us that slavery is the greatest sin, and all who suffer under the yoke of others are piteous-"

"Ah, I can see why you're so surprised," Davos said. "Beautiful slaves are treated better than smallfolk in Westeros. The more beautiful you are, the higher your status here, you see. Many slaves have more privileges and power than your average freedmen."

"It looks… too good to be true," Ser Willem Wythers muttered. "It sounds and smells too good to be true as well."

"Ser Davos already explained it all." Garlan sighed. "Lys is the city of beauty and joy, then those who lack either, the downtrodden, the poor, and those who are unlucky to be born deformed in any way–are simply sold off like chattel. Or used to do the most gruesome, dangerous, and back-breaking work. In a place where beauty is everything, being ugly or ungainly in any way must be the heaviest sin."

That silenced them.

Garlan had seen enough of the world to know that the beauty was merely a facade, hiding the darkness underneath. Everything had a cost, doubly more so for things like beauty and prosperity.

It wasn't long before they arrived at one of the numerous slave markets, where lives were traded for gold. Surely enough, it was as Ser Davos had claimed: all the men and women in chains were good-looking. Well-washed, well-groomed, and well-fed to the last, garbed with clean clothes that revealed too much, the slaves looked resigned or bored, while a select few were scared. Even now, enthusiastic merchants and rich freemen were roaring over each other to bid over their slave of choice. 

Had Leonette been sold off like this?

Had she been scared?

"We must do something," his usually taciturn squire growled through gritted teeth. "This is too barbaric!"

"Think before you leap," Garlan warned, placing a hand on Loren's shoulder to prevent him from rushing into something foolish. "What do you see?"

The sacrilegious existence of slavery alone deserved the Stranger's Kiss, so he understood Loren's wrath. But his anger had long cooled down into ice, and his heart was unmoved by the plights of the world.

"Armed guards from the flesh-peddlers," was the surly response. "And nearly two centuries of Unsullied. Probably a retinue of the magisters or richer merchants here."

His squire finally deflated. 

"Even if I commanded all my men here by somehow evading the notice of the city guard, the fight would be long and bloody. And what would we do with the slaves once the fighting is done?"

"Free them?"

"Most slaves don't have any home to go back to," Davos was the one to reply, his tone kind. "Even if you free them, it's far more likely they'll be captured again unless they manage to escape to Braavos or Westeros. But even there, without coin or significant skills, they're likely to turn to begging, whoring, or joining petty city gangs that swindle and rob. Smuggling would have been a fitting option if the former slaves were not all branded. Their best chance towards prosperity and freedom lies with their masters now."

"That's…"

"Terrible, yes," Garlan said. "But we cannot fix the world's woes. There is a reason the Seven-Pointed Star says the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Doing good might seem simple and easy, but making a difference is hard. Life… is a struggle, and perhaps that's what makes it so beautiful."

Beauty… his wife was beautiful. Leonette…they might have lacked the time to grow close, but she was still his wife.

The group arrived at another inn, Marlenna's Sigh, just by the Street of Pleasure, where most upscale brothels and courtesans resided, according to Davos. Why was a married man so familiar with the brothels? Garlan did not ask. He thought he had entered a fancy brothel by the red drapes decorated tables and the scent of perfume. Even some of the curtains were emblazoned with scandalous images of Ynanna, making his breeches feel uncomfortably tight. His squire was flushed red and didn't dare meet anyone's eyes. 

The scantily dressed wench with silver hair and emerald eyes threw him a saucy wink.

"This looks more like a pleasure house than an inn, Ser Davos," Garlan noted.

"Most inns in the city proper are like this." The Onion Knight then turned to greet the innkeeper. It seemed that the former smuggler had been a regular here. "This is one of the places the city guard never checks because it's run by the sister of one of the city's captains. As long as no trouble arises, this is a good place to start our search."

"Very well. But first, Ser Davos, a word?"

The Onion Knight waved over the innkeeper, who gave him a key to one of the private rooms in the back after a few hushed whispers.

"I am glad for the succour, Ser Davos," Garlan began. This was the first time the two of them were in private since the former smuggler had joined them. "But I still must ask. I am more than grateful for the assistance, but why put in all the effort and come here to aid me and mine?"

"I'm just a former smuggler who tries to do the right thing," came the weary response.

"A… rather contrasting combination. Some might even call it illogical."

"The war… it took a toll on me." Ser Davos' voice grew pained. "And I don't just mean two of my sons who died in the battle against the Myrish fleet. The fighting and the aftermath were worse than hearsay, or the tales can ever do it justice, the ugliest and most vicious parts of what men and women are capable of in the name of one thing or another. Rapine, senseless slaughter of women and children and greybeards, greedy looting, revenge that only invites even bigger cruelties… I don't know when this hell would end."

"Perhaps never," Garlan mused grimly. "My grandmother, for all her hubris, oft said the players might change, but the game of life never ends, whether you're a king or a pauper. I find myself agreeing as of late–that a war might end, and another will eventually take its place. The Valyrians had the right of it–all men must die, whether in old age in your bed or in pursuit of vengeance, ambition, wealth, or something else."

"I'm tired of all the senseless bloodshed. I want to do something other than just lead men into death or savagery," the old knight said, his words earnest. "Your quest to free the ladies from slavery is a righteous one, and I have no regrets aiding you."

"But your duty ought to compel you to serve Lady Shireen-"

"It does. But what use does a future queen have for a former smuggler?" Davos shook his head. "Perhaps if I was a mighty warrior, astute administrator, or a capable commander, I would never leave her side. But I'm merely an old man who doesn't even understand the games the highborn play. I would be even worse at the courtly intrigue the ladies love to weave. I make for a poor advisor, too. No, Shireen Baratheon has no need for Davos Seaworth. In fact, many would rejoice I'm no longer whispering in her ear."

His shoulders slumped as his gaze grew distant.

"I will, of course, return to King's Landing after your lady wife is found, beg a pardon and confess," he continued, his voice hoarse. "Perhaps turn to something honest like fishing if Lady Shireen forgives my slight–and the Night's Watch if she doesn't."

"Is it worth it?"

"As with many other matters, only time will tell," the Onion Knight said wisely. "It is a risk for certain, but I'm no stranger to risk; otherwise, I wouldn't have braved Lord Redwyne and his fleet in the darkness of the night with a small ship full of salted fish and onions. I have seen many things in my time as a knight and a smuggler. Some good, some bad, and most–various shades of grey. But I saw a man like you only once."

"A tragic fool?"

Davos Seaworth chuckled. "A man who doesn't give up no matter the odds or the task placed before him. You remind me of Lord Stannis. But even he gave up everything for his daughter in the end."

"Quite bold of you." Garlan rubbed his face tiredly. "But I am considered an outlaw, a foe to your liege. It's quite a risk to accompany me. What if she orders you to apprehend me?"

"An old cripple like me?" Davos raised his left hand to show off the missing tips of his fingers. "I can hardly fight off a skilled man-at-arms, let alone a knight of skill and renown like you, Ser."

"While that might be true, some of my men claim you are here to spy for the Iron Throne and report our deeds and location to the small council," Garlan's voice turned chilly. "Your words are pleasant to the ear, but I have no reason to trust them. You yourself don't deny your loyalty is with Lady Shireen Baratheon."

To his credit, the old man didn't flinch.

"Because I am loyal to her." Davos Seaworth took a gulp of spiced wine from his flask. "But I think actions speak louder than words. Have I not been of assistance to you so far? I could have ended your journey at sea, but instead, I joined you. Your time in Lys would be far harder without me, and I can help you more. Can you afford to decline my honest aid, Ser?"

"I can't," Garlan agreed with a sigh.

They called Davos Seaworth an honest smuggler, but he had the greatest cunning the knight had ever seen. Greater than his own father, Hightower, or the old lion of Casterly Rock. The Narrow Sea was under the control of Shireen Baratheon, and Davos was rumoured to be the one to have raised her more than her parents had. A girl she might be, but she was a scary little thing, her father's daughter in all things that mattered. If a hair fell off his head, Stannis' vicious daughter would never let Garlan have a moment of respite. And Davos Seaworth was right; his skills, experience, and connections were too valuable to discard in Essos.

Garlan didn't know whether to laugh or to weep.

It was madness, a captain and a knight abandoning his assigned post in the middle of a war, doubly so to accompany a potential foe. Some would rightly call it treason. His presence here was a risk on its own, no matter how helpful. 

Logic dictated he got rid of Davos Seaworth. But something stayed his hand.

The man had not done anything to invoke Garlan's ire–the fact that his sons and probably half the royal fleet knew he had left with Garlan notwithstanding. His dead father was even grateful for that stunt back in Storm's End–if the king's brothers had been starved to death, nobody knew what Robert Baratheon would have done. Perhaps he could have fought for the young and untested Viserys Targaryen instead of bending the knee, but even then, victory would be unlikely.

A tired sigh rolled off his lips.

"I will trust you for now, Davos Seaworth," Garlan said. "But know this. Neither I nor my men are afraid of death. Betray us and suffer the consequences at your own peril."

"I would have thought lesser of you otherwise," was the dry response. "Don't worry, we'll find your wife quickly. There's no need for fighting here, merely coin and some time."

"From your mouth to the Father's ears." Not the Warrior or the Stranger–both would prefer to see death and fighting. 

Garlan truly hoped the Onion Knight could find the location of the ladies sold here. Otherwise, he would have to resort to requesting assistance from his unfortunate aunt Lynesse, Leyton's youngest daughter. The young girl he remembered was notoriously dreamy and airheaded, and it had been over half a decade since she was considered a taboo topic in Highgarden due to her loose morals and the status of a chief concubine to a Merchant Prince of Lys.

Not only had Lynesse trampled on the marriage to the infamous Slaver Lord of Bear Island that she strongly insisted upon, but she was now running a harem!

A part of him longed to see the young lady who sang songs of valour and chivalry to him and encouraged Garlan on the road to knighthood when he was young, but another part did not know if she even existed anymore. How did one speak to a chief concubine of a merchant prince who dealt with the purchase and sale of pleasure?

***

17th Day of the 11th Moon, 299 AC (3 days later)

Three days.

Davos Seaworth was a man of his word.

Three days later, Leonette was brought before him from a pleasure house, her belly bulging slightly. She refused to meet his gaze, and something inside Garlan broke. Rhaelle Selmy and Alysanne Bulwer were also brought over, but their gazes were distant, and the previous giggly maidens were nowhere to be seen.

To add insult to injury, they were all dressed like godsworn novices of the Faith from head to toe, with the pristine white garb the colour of freshly fallen snow. Leonette looked even more beautiful, with her honeyed curls flowing like a river of silk and her womanly figure on full display from the tight-fitted gown.

Garlan didn't ask where they were found, but he saw Davos quietly mouth 'brothel'. Purchasing someone's freedom was still considered a sin in the Faith, but Garlan couldn't bring himself to care right now. He pulled his wife into his embrace, but she felt like a statue, not uttering a word.

His mood soured only further. His men held a small feast that night to honour their success, but Garlan didn't feel he had succeeded. He felt hollow, empty. Broken.

Worse, he had seen this coming. He knew only woe awaited him at the end of this road, but he had taken it anyway because his honour compelled him to. 

"We have four more to find before we can leave this sinful city," Ser Androw noted.

"I found Lady Alyce Graceford, too, but she refused to be purchased from the pillow house," Davos muttered with a grimace. "She said to my face–once a whore, always a whore. What use is returning now? No matter how many titles I earn or how many times I pray, my husband and the world will never see me otherwise. I will be forever a disgrace on the name Graceford, and my presence alone would shame them to no end."

Alyce Graceford was one of Margaery's friends, and she had given birth to a healthy son during the war before rejoining his sister's retinue. She had ruled her own House with a consort and already had an heir. And her loyalty to House Tyrell and his sister was rewarded with… this.

Was there a greater disgrace or humiliation to a lady?

He felt his nails draw blood from his palm and took a slow breath to clear his mind. But it didn't ease the knot in his throat. Garlan couldn't take it anymore, so he retired to his room. A set of light footsteps trailed after him, and the faint scent of honeysuckle betrayed that it was his wife.

She followed him into his room, too, and helped him remove his garments. But she still refused to meet his gaze. 

"I'm sorry," Leonette whispered, voice hoarse and trembling.

"You have not done anything wrong to apologise," Garlan reassured her softly, but his own words rang empty.

"I'm sorry it came to this." She finally lifted her chin to meet his gaze. Her brown eyes were dark, swimming with tears.

"Shhh, shh, don't cry. It's been… an exhausting day. Let's rest."

Like a frightful deer, she glued herself to his chest and followed him in bed, clinging to his body as if he would disappear between her hands.

"I dreamed of you coming so many times," she confessed, her voice cracking like a jagged piece of glass. "I dreamed of you saving me every night. I dreamed that there was no war, and we had half a dozen kids, all hale and healthy. I dreamed that the summer would never end."

Yet winter was already here. Gods, his wife was broken. And those broken required peace and quiet and understanding and love to heal. But theirs was not a love match, and even if it was… could Garlan truly help? He himself was no better. This war had shattered him down to his very core.

Could he bring himself to raise a child that possibly wasn't even his? Could he bring himself to touch his wife, who had been turned into a pleasure slave? It was to no fault of her own, but… it didn't change the facts that it happened.

"Those are nice dreams," Garlan said, feeling more alone in the bed despite having a companion for the first time. How many times had he declined the serving wench or the innkeeper's daughter? If only he could forget. Perhaps he could forget only for tonight. 

"That they are," her words were soft, like the fall of autumn leaves in the godswood. And it made his insides clench some more. "Hold me, please?" 

Garlan's hands felt stiff as he slipped a hand under her torso. She was soft and warm and…

"How are you?" The moment the words slipped from his mouth, he felt like a fool.

"I'm not sure if I'm dreaming still," was the sad response. "Tell me… a story. Tell me what happened to you since we last saw each other."

"It's an ugly story. A story of blood and death and betrayal," he cautioned. "Of hotheaded foolishness and misplaced valour."

"But it is your story. I want to hear it, please."

A sigh rolled off his lips.

"Very well. I finally cornered the Blackfish, and we decided to resolve it by single combat," he started, slowly telling her everything. Betrayal, death, and loss were not a pleasant story. 

But for the first time, Leonette's eyes sparkled as she looked at him as if he had hung the moon in the sky. She didn't look at him that way even when they had wedded.

By the end, his throat was hoarse, and his wife was softly snoring. Garlan felt drained, as if the tale had taken the last of his strength, but he still struggled to fall asleep.

Eventually, he drifted off. 

He woke up to the faint sound of movement. He had already leapt off the bed, his hand finding the sword by his bedside.

"It's me," Leonette said from one of the chairs. He could barely see her silhouette from the darkness, courtesy of the thin strands of starlight seeping from the gaps of the curtains through the glass window.

"Trouble sleeping?" He asked gently. "Should I order another room?"

"There's no need, Garlan," there was a sliver of sorrow in her response. "I-I just need time to think. And the heat keeps me awake at night."

Garlan managed to fall asleep with even bigger difficulty, but exhaustion finally said its peace.

In the morning, however, Leonette was shivering, and the bump in her belly was gone, and her white gown was stained with red.

"Leonette?" His voice came out hoarse. His whole body felt sore with exhaustion. "What did you do?"

"The baby… it wasn't yours," she whimpered, her body shivering and voice laced with pain. Yet… he felt numb. It was to be expected. But the words banished the last vestiges of sleep. "I had my moonblood once after we last laid together, and this would shame you…"

"What did you do, Leonette?!"

That only made her sob harder.

"I got rid of it." Leonette smiled at him, but it was brittle. "A pinch of wormwood, a drop of penny royal, tansy…" 

"Father Above, you're bleeding, woman!"

"But it would have shamed us–a rape spawn. You deserve better than that–"

Garlan leapt out of bed.

"Healer!" He roared as he skipped down the stairs. "Someone get me a damned healer!"

The commotion quickly awoke everyone. Davos was the fastest to act, rushing out of the inn only in breeches, undershirt, and a travel cloak. Garlan kept Leonette in his embrace, whispering sweet yet empty words of comfort. He placed a hand over her brow, but her skin was burning like a furnace. One of the servants brought a wet, cold rag, but it didn't help, and crimson was seeping everywhere beneath his wife.

A part of Garlan was equally terrified and relieved when Leonette's heart-breaking moans of pain quieted as she lost consciousness. 

After what felt like an eternity but was merely a third of a burning candle, the former smuggler returned with a healer in tow. The acolyte, a young man with a shaved head and herbs tattooed on his forehead, chased the rest of them out.

Two hours later, the healer toiled, and when he left the room, he shook his head.

"There's a reason it is not wise to get rid of a babe after it quickens," the man gruffed in rough Common Tongue, his hands covered in blood all the way to the elbows. "Her moon tea was poorly mixed and was highly poisonous to her body, too."

Garlan, feeling numb, entered the room. There was blood–too much blood. The bedcovers were dripping with crimson, and amidst the bed of blood lay his wife, finally looking peaceful in death.

A part of him wanted to weep, but his tears had dried long ago. The feeling of numbness and emptiness was replaced by rage.

But no matter how hard he raged, he could do nought against the gods' will. A small part of him felt… glad. His wife had joined with the Stranger, now unburdened by mortal ills. But Garlan knew this was just an excuse he was trying to give himself to feel better. 

***

17th Day of the 11th Moon, 299 AC (same day)

Eddard Stark, Runestone

Runestone was far more dreary than he remembered. While the castle itself or the rune-covered curtain walls were still the same, the usually bustling docks were empty save for his ships, and the weather was overcast, with heavy clouds looming above the Mountains of the Moon in the distance.

The grim faces that met him only added to the sense of futility. Even Zolo and his five hundred Dothraki didn't elicit much of a reaction, though with the way the former screamers had taken to wearing armour and fur-lined vests to ward off the winter's chill, they were quite hard to recognise for those not in the know. Ned knew he had finally won their utter loyalty, for they had offered only a token objection when faced with sailing through the Narrow Sea. At least having such skilled light cavalry here would be a boon, even if bringing their horses here had been quite the struggle.

Guest right was offered and accepted, the Lord of Runestone swore fealty before Tommen for all to see, and only then the Lord of Winterfell was led to Royce's private audience chamber. 

Ned's eyes lingered on the familiar room, and he had lost count of how many times he had visited the chamber with Jon and Robert. The audience chamber lay unchanged from his childhood memories, illuminated by braziers and candles and an arched window of yellow glass with iron bars facing the training yard in the south. It also lacked the pomp and overeager display of wealth many Southron houses prided themselves on, focusing on austerity and martial achievement instead. The walls were covered by two tapestries, the Battle of the Seven Stars and the Great Red River Hunt, bronze banners depicting various First Men runes, and a collection of ornamental axes, swords, and shields forged in bronze and inscribed with runes. 

The roaring hearth and the two flickering braziers kept the room warm as Andar and Ned sat on the high-backed chairs lined with fur surrounding the heavy oak table in the middle. Winter made himself comfortable by the fire, his shaggy grey tail lazily swaying as he listened with rapt attention.

"My condolences for the loss of your father, Lord Royce," Eddard bowed his head as he gazed at the stone-faced Andar Royce. It had been over half an hour, yet the man's face had not twitched even once.

"The Seven decreed it was his time," the young lord replied with a practised dry tone, likely a platitude he had given hundreds of times. "I expected you would head to King's Landing, Lord Stark. Or perhaps the North to defend your castle and wife?"

"Winterfell is safe, Lord Royce," he reassured. "I bring three thousand men here, and three thousand more shall bolster King's Landing. Alas, Anya Waynwood is sieging my nephew in the Eyrie right now while the rest of the fools following her are attacking the Riverlands for a mummer's claim."

It was a surprising thing to learn that Aegon had indeed been a Blackfyre by his mother. His father was a dragonseed, too, the son of one of the numerous bastards Aerion Brightflame had sown in Lys. Illyrio Mopatis had no taste for pain, and had sung and sung loudly under the torturer's deft hands while cursing House Stark and the Pentoshi magisters to the high heavens.

A carefully orchestrated plot, over two decades in the making. 

Nobody could have foreseen it, especially after all vigil to the Blackfyres perished with Maelys the Monstrous at the Stepstones. But for good or bad, Illyrio's confession mattered little. The scheming had already born fruit, alliances had been sealed by marriage, armies had been mustered, and claims announced. It would be his word taken under torture against Jon Connington or the dead eunuch Varys.

Words mattered as much as whispers in the wind at this point. Even if Ned exposed it for all the realm to hear, none who sided with Aegon would believe a tortured Essosi's confession, for they had already chosen who to follow. In the end, it was merely another battle to fight. 

"A most welcome change, if a bit late," there was a hint of accusation in Andar's voice. "My father and many more perished for Joffrey's claim and Jon Arryn's feeble son."

"Their deaths won't be in vain," Ned promised. "From this day, I declare House Stark regent of Robert Arryn through blood, and all those in the Vale who dispute my claims or support Pretenders are to be attainted from their lands and titles in perpetuity. Summon the Vale banners to war and to swear to Tommen Baratheon, and let us see who remains leal to House Arryn."

"Redfort, Melcolm, and Upcliff will definitely answer from the stronger Arryn bannermen," Andar mused. "Perhaps even Hunter, Grafton, and Waxley. But those are the houses that suffered the most from the Black Death. Waynwood has the rest in her grip with a web of interests, alliances, and promises. Rumours are Aegon promised to make Harold Hardyng the next Lord of the Vale and promote the kingdom to a principality akin to Dorne."

"And they would take down the son of Jon Arryn for it?" Ned asked, aghast.

"There are whispers that he is not Jon Arryn's child. Too sickly and small, with dark hair, unlike most previous Arryns. The men of House Tully are strong and stocky in build, and so are Arryns. But one is red of hair, the other is blonde, so where did this mop of brown come from? Tongues have started claiming that Sweetrobin is not Jon Arryn's son but the fruit of Lysa Arryn's dalliance with one Petyr Baelish. Of course, they have no better proof than Renly does."

Tommen, who was sitting by his side, tilted his head.

"So merely slander, then?"

"A slander that fits their goals, indeed," Andar agreed darkly. "Perhaps some of these thrice-damned fence-sitters even believe it. Or perhaps they conveniently choose to forget that Hoster Tully had a mane of brown in his youth, and Jon Arryn's mother, Jeyne, had a shock of chestnut curls."

It wasn't common knowledge, especially the latter part–Jon Arryn's mother had perished long before Eddard was even born, and he wouldn't know as much if not for her portrait in the Gates of the Moon that Jon had hung in his solar. 

Gods, would this foolishness ever end? His good sister might have lost her wits, but who had spread such vile rumours?

It seemed it had been the correct decision to come to the Vale.

"Give me a stock of the available supplies for the sickness," Ned ordered. "We can expect more food and medicine from Pentos–steel too. Now, let us speak battles. Give me anything you have on Waynwood and her cronies' movements. At least the weather favours us–the high road should be closed off soon from the snow."

"What about the rest of the kingdoms?" Tommen asked, idly running his fingers through his lion's fur. "Shouldn't we announce my presence and claim for the kingdoms to hear?"

"Right you are. Lord Royce, send ravens to every corner of Westeros, proclaiming the rise of Tommen Baratheon to the Iron Throne and demanding the fealty of lords. Let the realm know there can be no doubt in the royal succession."

"It shall be done, Lord Regent Stark. But if I might have a moment of your time to discuss a private matter?"

"Of course, Lord Andar," Ned responded as he dismissed Tommen to his quarters. "I considered your father a close friend, and the connections between Winterfell and Runestone are old yet still hold strong."

"Aye, my father oft spoke of when His Grace, Lord Arryn, and you came to visit," fondness crept into Andar's voice as they watched the young king retreat with a solemn nod.

"He has the make of kings, unlike his brother. But I've grown tired of tales of crowns and thrones. Please tell me of my brother, Lord Stark," the Lord of Runestone requested as he poured both of them a cup of dark autumn ale. "Tell me of how Robar is faring. I expected him to come home with you once I heard the two of you met, but he's nowhere to be seen. I've listened hard to catch wind of his location and heard a thousand rumours of his journey in Essos, each one wilder and less believable than the last."

"It's to be expected. Essos can be quite jarring, challenging your beliefs down to the very core, even more so the further east you go, and Robar has been all the way to Vaes Dothrak and Slaver's Bay, even. But… I believe he's doing quite well, though I believe he's discovering the skills of swinging a sword riding atop horseback help little with the matters of administration and governance," Ned responded with a fond chuckle. "It doesn't help that everything in Myr has to be redone from the ground up. The traditional system of lords and fiefs and knights is too new and unsuitable for the freedmen of the Ashen Plains and Myr, and they have no desire to return to the tyrannical rule of slave-peddling magisters, which leaves them on a new, uncharted path."

Andar Royce goggled, face twisted with surprise as he stared at him.

"Quite the ambitious task," he noted, voice growing fond. "So he had truly taken up the cause of the Myrish freedmen?"

"Aye. And now they've all grown used to listening to him and Ser Donnel Locke. But alas, the latter was crippled and not fit to serve as a Governor of Myr. Even the extent of duties, powers, and privileges of the position is still in question, as is if they want to serve for a year like the former Triachs of Volantis or half a decade like the now defunct Archon of Tyrosh or for life like the Sealord of Braavos."

"I never knew my brother was interested in such matters that are usually left to maesters and councillors," Andar rubbed his chin, face growing thoughtful. "But I suppose Myr has neither maesters nor proper councillors."

Ned sighed, remembering a thousand questions the younger Royce brother had asked him–as did the rest of the revolt leaders who found themselves with the daunting task of running a city. A pity House Stark had limited knowledge in the matters of ruling colossal cities, let alone one the size of Myr that saw snow once or twice in a lifetime at most.

"Maester Arren and Ser Donnel Locke are still alive and offer sound advice. But Robar was quite willing to do the work, I daresay," he said. "War and suffering change a man, and your brother has seen overmuch of both in Essos. I believe Robar has given his heart to Myr and will probably stay there until the very end, especially now that he's an Archon in all but name. Your brother is the sort of man that stands firmer the more duties you pile on your shoulders."

The Lord of Runestone shook his head. "I still remember Robar as a young knight eager for fame and glory. Gods, I trust your words, Lord Stark, but I struggle to reconcile the image they paint with the memories of my brother."

"Write to your brother, then," Ned advised. "It's been a year and a half, so see for yourself. Tell him what has happened here, in Runestone and the Vale. Share your joys and griefs and offer advice and assistance where you can."

"I… I think I'll do that," Andar declared, resolve creeping in his voice as he straightened up. "But Lord Stark, I must request a little more of your time. If my brother is dead set on Myr, I would ask of you to tell me of the city's happenstance…"

The two of them spoke until nightfall, but that was the fondest and most relaxed part of Ned's stay in Runestone this time. 

***

The next dozen days were filled with tedium. Dozens of men fell sick from the Black Plague, and the stock of supplies Ned had dragged all the way from Myr finally turned useful. The disease with its black bulbous growths indeed looked terrifying, doubly so when those who fell ill had their sclera turn black. But the maester claimed the symptoms were far milder than the previous bout.

Most of the ill merely got off with a heavy fever, sore throat, and black eyes but recovered within days. 

Ned had prepared for this outcome. Considering all of his points for return–White Harbour, Gulltown, Duskendale, and King's Landing had seen an outbreak of disease previously, he knew he wouldn't be able to avoid it just yet. 

Going to the Crownlands would be folly, considering the armies and the plague had swept the lands clean of men and supplies. By his calculation, it would take decades to recover, especially considering winter had arrived. It couldn't sustain another full campaign, which meant that even if Aegon did a push for King's Landing, he would be facing starvation while Bracken, who had been ordered to defend the city, would be able to comfortably hold out, especially with the additional supplies coming from Pentos.

Going to the North was useless, especially after Rickon had gleefully informed him that Hightower was broken and that Winterfell's walls were decorated with Reachmen and Ironmen's heads. His son was getting increasingly proficient in his icy dream-delving, as Theon loved to call it.

He had deliberated about sending Tommen to King's Landing, but Ned didn't trust the schemers who, like roaches, no doubt survived and were waiting for such an opportunity. In the end, having Tommen accompany the army and appear in person in the Vale would raise morale immensely and possibly sway any hesitating lords. And he could get some more experience and handle how to campaign.

His thoughts drifted back to the Black Death. 

At least those who fell ill and were cured didn't suffer again from the foul disease–almost none from the Royce retinue or household got sick. Proper hygiene helped reduce the spread of the illness even further, and Ned had forced his men to wash their hands with common soap every time before meals on the advice of Runestone's maester. Digging latrines and every possible trick to chase off any potential disease-spreading vermin were also employed.

Within a fortnight, Royce's bannermen had started streaming in one by one, and some other petty lords and landed knights sworn to Arryn. Yet their numbers were sparse; it was clear that the first bout of the Black Death had left a heavy toll. Only Redfort seemed to be on the way with a muster of two thousand men.

It seemed that Ned would face Waynwood's twelve thousand with eight thousand of his own. The odds weren't too bad, especially considering Edmure Tully seemed to be redirecting his men, and even the Freys were entering the fray after loudly declaring their loyalty to Tommen Baratheon for all to hear.

The good news continued. Robb had done well to capture Highgarden and put pressure on Hightower instead of recklessly rushing into more battles. Even a raven from Winterfell arrived with Myrcella announcing the death of Balon Greyjoy and Baelor Hightower, quite possibly in an effort to strike at the morale of the treacherous lords who had decided to support the pretenders. 

The Golden Company was laying siege to Storm's End, news started to trickle from the North how Jon had taken Barrowton, the Ironmen were expelled, and an expedition to tackle the Iron Isles was being prepared with all haste.

Everything was developing according to the way Ned had foreseen until Cersei Lannister arrived on a trading galley from White Harbour. First, she was not as pregnant as he was led to believe. In fact, her figure seemed to be in even better shape than Ned remembered, judging by the skin-tight silken gown that accented her chest. Her smile was bright, and her green eyes were glowing with satisfaction.

Over a year had passed, and this was not the look of a woman who had lost a husband, a son, a brother, and a father. 

What had happened to Cersei?

"Lord Stark," she almost purred, with a warm smile that sent goosebumps down his spine. "I am glad to see you have kept your promise. Where is my son?"

'She's making bedroom eyes at you,' Theon's whisper was thick with dark amusement. 'Even now, she's shamelessly undressing you with her gaze. Your best friend married an insatiable beast!'

"Busy with his lessons," Ned's reply came out far more clipped than he intended to. "A crown demands excellence. You can watch, Your Grace, but please do not interrupt."

***

7th Day of the 12th Moon, 299 AC (18 days later)

While Ned was preparing things, Tommen had acquired two white shadows who followed his every step like a pair of hounds. Ser Jonnel Serrett and Bennard Slate arrived from King's Landing with the fastest ship they had found, never leaving the young king out of sight. They kept eyeing the smiling Mallo, who accompanied the young king as his personal manservant most of the time and with good reason. The former slave still carried his weird sword belt but had procured a set of dragonsteel throwing knives hidden in the inner hems of his tunic, boot and cloak.

The majority of the army was finally assembled and ready to march forth to Ironoaks, but what worried Eddard more was Cersei's presence. He struggled to get a read on her, and she always kept speaking in half-truths, and the only thing that seemed to genuinely please her was that Tommen was betrothed to Shireen, much to his surprise. Eddard didn't spare her much thought as he was busy preparing the campaign, tutoring Tommen in every spare moment, both in martial and kingly matters. 

On the last sennight, she had played the part a Queen Dowager ought to do–take control of the gaggle of Myrish wives his men had married, along with Royce's young wife and sister. Much to her chagrin, however, Tommen did his very best to avoid his mother, quite possibly over the rumour of her birthing a bastard in White Harbour.

It wasn't merely a rumour; the castellan of New Castle had informed Ned of that much–a babe with bright blue eyes, and a tuft of black hair named Elayne Waters had been born a moon earlier. But Cersei didn't act like she had just given birth to a child. No, she was using every opportunity to accost Ned.

The subtle flirting and grabbing every chance to initiate physical contact, like rubbing shoulders or attempting to reach for his wrist in a seemingly inconspicuous and innocent manner, were beginning to grow on his nerves.

Now that Theon had noticed what she was doing, Eddard Stark was very much aware Cersei Lannister was trying her best to seduce him. Worse, he had to send Winter out to hunt because the direwolf felt ready to tear Tommen's mother alive on the spot. The now newly-named hrakkar cub Lan was also shadowing his familiar. At least the cat was well-behaved… for now.

It would be a test to see if it would still behave after it tasted raw flesh after a hunt.

"I think I have something," Nymeria stealthily slipped into his meeting room shortly after breakfast. "And it's not her laughable attempts at seduction this time. Her servants say how Cersei oft sent some pain-relief concoctions to Queen Myrielle when she was pregnant. And she perished from the Black Death even quicker than most victims do despite receiving the Maester's full attention in a single day when it's supposed to kill in three at the earliest, though many chalked it up to the heavy pregnancy." 

"You don't think it's the case?" Ned hummed, putting down the letter from Riverrun.

"I've asked for the precise herbal relief recipe, and it contained thyme, mint, and other things that are most definitely not suitable for pregnant women," she whispered. "My father taught me plenty about poisons, and… well, I think Cersei poisoned her good-daughter. Or at least tried to kill her babe in the womb."

"Troubling. But there's not much I can do. That is hardly proof of anything but negligence," Ned groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Keep an ear out for other suspicious things."

Dealing with an errant Queen Dowager clinging to the shadow of her former power was the last thing he wanted to do right now, even if Cersei continued her current games. But it was not something he could simply leave alone either, especially if she had indeed played a part in her good daughter's demise. A decree to send her back to White Harbour would be the best, with strict orders for the Castellan not to let her leave until the war ended. 

But it seemed that Cersei had other plans, and a disgruntled Walder brought over a small roll of parchment after dinner. 

Surely enough, it was a summon for a meeting before the heart tree. An ambush? As tempted as Ned was to decline this invitation, he didn't, for it was his chance to get answers quickly.

Giving Walder orders to get his full plate, Ned also donned his arming doublet, pulled on the dragonsteel scalemail, and hid it under his heavy fur-lined cloak.

Twenty minutes later, he was in the dark Royce grove, accompanied by Walder's hulking form and Winter prowling in the night nearby. Walder remained guard at the arched entrance door. Runestone's godswood was far smaller than Winterfell's– merely a sixth of the size but just as ancient. And just like every other godswood south of the Neck, it rarely received any visitors, making it the perfect place for a secret rendezvous. The heart tree sported a vigilant face under the shining moonlight. And just by the roots, Cersei was nestled, wrapped in a dark green hunting robe.

"Lord Stark," she greeted with a warm smile. "I was not sure you would accept my invitation. Or perhaps I should call you Lord Regent instead."

This was the first time they had spoken in private despite Cersei's numerous attempts to arrange such a meeting for the last sennight.

"Lord Stark will do for now," Ned replied curtly. "You wanted to see me, Your Grace?"

"Indeed." Cersei sat down on one of the pale roots the size of her waist and patted the place beside her. "Sit with me, Lord Stark."

"It is not appropriate."

"It's good we're not in public, then," she said, her voice turning coy. "Courtesies are wasted in private, especially between allies." 

"The gods are watching," he motioned towards the carved face that looked like it was frowning from the bone-like bark.

"Ah, but what does the divine care about mortal courtesies? Come, Lord Stark. Sit. I don't bite… unless you want me to." 

'She's asking for a good fucking!' Theon's laughter echoed in his mind. True enough, Winter could feel the scent of arousal from afar, and Ned had to exercise all of his control not to let the direwolf lunge forth and rip the king's mother apart. 

Sighing, Ned sat down on the root across instead so he could face Cersei. 

"Fine, let's do away with the courtesies and finish this talk quickly," he urged. "The army has to leave tomorrow."

"This is precisely why I wanted to talk to you," Cersei replied with a pout while her index finger twirled around her golden curls. "I wish for Tommen to stay here with me. Leading an army and running the royal court at the same time can be cumbersome, and I can help alleviate some of that… burden."

"Meaning?"

"Let me have the Regency, Lord Stark. You can continue being Hand of the King and Lord Protector of the Realm while I travel with Tommen to King's Landing and put it to rights." She fished out a flask of wine and took a heavy gulp, and her cheeks quickly gained a red hue. "Wine?"

There was something else mixed in the wine. No, it wasn't poison since Cersei had drunk from it, and it didn't smell dangerous. Aphrodisiac?

"It's too late to indulge," he declined. 

"Come, Lord Stark, it's just a drink amongst friends," she urged, standing up and happily sitting by his side. Her hand settled on his knee and began to travel up his groin until Ned caught the offending limb. 

"Spoilsport," she pouted. 

"You're Robert's widow."

"And Robert has been gone for over a year now," she pointed out. "Even a widow like me has her needs."

"You had no problem satisfying them, judging by the birth of your bastard daughter," Ned pointed out.

"Ah, but it was merely a tryst. You, on the other hand, have suffered far longer than me without a woman's touch. How long has it been since you last saw your wife? Nearly two years? Surely a man like you is not made from ice despite what the rumours claim?"

"Good night, Lady Lannister," Ned nodded and made to stand up, but Cersei draped herself over his arm.

"Come now, you will not leave a poor woman like me so hot and bothered?" She panted in his ear, face flushed with desire. "Your wife doesn't need to know. Just a little fun-"

Eddard ignored his rising arousal and pushed her away, knocking the wineskin out of her hand. For all her faults, Cersei was a beautiful woman.

"A war was fought over the rumours of your infidelity, Cersei," he hissed out. "Lord Manderly and your late Father barely managed to cover up your sordid affair, and now you want to continue?" Rage leaked into his voice as he angrily motioned at the carved face, which stood silent as it watched. "Worse, you want me to lie and break my vows before the eyes of the Gods?"

"We can do it in your bedroom, then," she proposed shamelessly. Then, her nose wrinkled in displeasure. "You already have a bastard, so why play the prude? Am I worse than that Dayne chit?"

Was this how it felt to be hoisted by his own petard?

'Lead her along, boy. If you just play cold to get, she will slip away, and you will gain nothing but frustration from it,' Theon advised. 'This is the chance to pry away her schemes from her rosy lips, I say.'

'I'm not sleeping with another woman, you fool-'

'And I'm not suggesting that you do. But you can let her think you are. A little lie in pursuit of the truth shouldn't hurt, will it? Or you don't even have to lie, just like you did with your nephew. Ply her with wine more and make her think you're agreeable.'

"I will… consider it if you answer one question of mine truthfully," Ned lied, the words feeling like hot coals on his tongue. He picked up the wineskin, uncorked it and took a sip. Surely enough, the heat slithered its way to his nether region, and his breeches felt all too tight. How powerful was this damned aphrodisiac?

"Oh, I am at your service, Lord Regent," Cersei smiled coquettishly.

"Drink up first if we're to celebrate our alliance." He handed her wine back with a wolfish smile.

Cersei didn't hesitate to drain the contents, and her face turned rosy red. She once again placed her hand on his hip. Eddard Stark loathed her touch, yet his body longed for it all the same.

"Ask your question, Lord Stark."

"You killed Myrielle Lannister," Ned declared bluntly, catching her off guard. "Why?"

"Oh," Cersei pouted. "The chit was cuckolding on my son, I believe. After months of talking, her handmaid, Ronda Lanny, slipped that she had slept with my precious Joffrey more than once in place of her Lady. I did some digging and realised it was in the Queen's own quarters, you see. Myrielle and Ronda changed garments, and Myrielle slipped away after dinner on the days she had no guards while the handmaid remained in bed to fulfil her 'wifely duties'. This can only be a secret tryst!"

"A bold accusation to make," Ned noted, surprised that all of the words Cersei had just spoken were truthful. Perhaps that was why Tywin's daughter was so dangerous. "You could have dealt with this far more openly than–"

"It would besmirch my son's name." Cersei's face twisted into a hateful scowl. She grabbed another wineskin from her cloak and took a generous sip. "To be cuckolded by his own wife! I don't want him to suffer the same fate I did! My reputation is in tatters because of Renly's vile accusations!"

My reputation is in tatters because of Renly's vile accusations!

My reputation is in tatters because of Renly's vile accusations!

Why… why was this a half-truth?

Her reputation had taken a blow, that much was known, so it meant that the falsehood was in the second half of the statement…

Dread pooled in his belly. 

"Renly's proof is flimsy at best," Ned prodded carefully, the words raking at his dry throat. 

"Yes, yes," she agreed, leaning forth to kiss his cheek. Her breath stank of wine–she had drunk earlier that evening, too. "Indeed. Eddard. It's good that nobody believed him, but the truth doesn't matter in the end."

Why did his name sound like sin upon her tongue?

"It doesn't?"

'She's not denying it,' Theon cheered shamelessly. 'Oh gods, I'm willing to bet my sword she cuckolded her husband. Did you notice that not even once had she said it was a lie or denied it? Oh, the whore thinks herself clever!' 

"My father always used to say that it doesn't matter who is right, only who is left." Cersei's hands were like snakes, tangling around his neck as she kept whispering sweetly, "I hated Robert, you know. I still hate the damn whoremonger! I hated him since our wedding night, where he came in like the drunken lout he was, whispering and moaning about his precious Lyanna while venting his lusts on me! I could never forget the indignity."

Robert, oh Robert, how could you have ruined your marriage before it had even begun?

'Continue playing, you daft fool. Console her a little.'

Eddard swallowed heavily and forced himself to think of Catelyn as he ran his hand through Cersei's back. Gods, it made him feel so dirty.

"Alas, Robert was not suited for marriage but for fighting and drinking," Ned offered weakly. "Some days, I think even my own sister would have hated being wedded to him if she had lived."

"I should have wedded to Rhaegar instead," Cersei lamented as she took another sip from her second wineskin. "He would have never gone running off after your wolfish little sister if he was wedded to me instead to that ugly Martell drape. Or perhaps you would do too–a loyal husband would do, though I could have wedded Jai…."

She halted then, blinking at the ground and then at him.

'Ah yes, you barely pass the proud lioness' sky-high standards,' his ancestor tutted between his wheezing laughter. 'I bet she was about to say Jaime. Oh, oh, oh, had the lioness had a thing for her gilded brother as Renly had proclaimed?'

'This is not a family of lions but vipers and snakes!' Eddard cursed inwardly. 

"Is that why you cuckolded Robert?"

Cersei slapped him, then. Then she lunged forth to steal a kiss.

"Does it matter?" She panted heavily. "The past is in the past, and if Robert could sleep around, why would I stay true to my vows? Let us not speak of such trivial matters. We're already allies, bound by blood. We can make the union stronger. Together, we can rule the Seven Kingdoms until Tommen comes of age!"

She did not deny it. She did not deny it!

Despair crept into his chest. Was he in the wrong from the very start? Was it because he refused to see out of fear for Renly and Stannis' ambitions? Was it because Jon had written he lacked any proof? Why didn't Renly call for a Grand Council?

'Because the truth didn't matter nearly as much as the swords that supported him,' Theon provided unhelpfully. 'Your friend Robert didn't call for a Grand Council but fought!'

But Cersei's words continued echoing in his mind like a death knell. 

Let us not speak of such trivial matters.

Let us not speak of such trivial matters.

Any doubt Ned held was gone. Had he always been so blind? Only Cersei Lannister could call plunging the realm into a civil war out of wounded pride trivial. She had one duty, one duty only–to provide Robert with heirs, and she deliberately failed it out of spite. 

A searing ball of rage erupted in his belly, and Eddard Stark had to hold everything back not to strangle Cersei Lannister here and now. 

"I'll join you in your room shortly, then," Eddard promised, trying to swallow the revulsion that threatened to choke him. "I need to wash the dirt and sweat from today first."

Another kiss, this time on his lips, before Cersei rushed away, swaying her hips seductively on her way back to her quarters.

'I wonder what will you do now,' Theon mused, his annoying voice thickening with delight. 'Will you support Renly after you and your son fought so hard against him? Shireen? Call for a Great Council only to be laughed on by the whole realm for a fool? Will you force your son to put aside his golden wife?'

'You don't know that they're not Robert's,' Ned returned, but the words sounded weak even in his own words. 'Drunken tongues can hardly be trusted.'

'Ah, but wine and ale merely reveal what is already underneath, my dear Eddard. Though you are true, nobody will accept the drunken confession of a whore as truth, even if her salacious deeds speak far louder than any words can.'

Eddard Stark dipped into a bath of cold water, and it quickly killed his rising desire, but it didn't cool down his rage. Gods, he was confused, but most importantly, he was angry. He was furious at Cersei; he was angry at the Kingslayer; he was wroth at Robert, Renly, and even Stannis for some reason. And even now, he had no way of knowing the truth, even if Cersei's actions were damning. Gods, they all deserved each other. If only they hadn't plunged the realm into this brutal, senseless war out of spite and pride and ambition…

He was most angry with himself for not investigating properly. But it would have doubtlessly played into the hands of all the schemers in King's Landing… tangling his family up into an unsolvable mess.

Gods, for the first time in years, Eddard Stark didn't know what to do. He saw no right way forward, no matter how hard he tried, and even the Hungry Wolf remained quiet.

But he knew one thing.

Cersei Lannister was too dangerous, too treacherous to be kept alive.

Steeling himself, Ned donned a set of inconspicuous garments and sneaked to Cersei's quarters with the aid of Winter's sharp senses. Slipping past the guards was easy since Jory had given him all the shifts and positions for approval earlier. He gave a sign to Walder to bar the base of the stairs and halt any visitors. At least her apartments were merely one level below him in this wing of the Guest Tower anyway–the whole floor to herself, even. 

There was no guard at her door, and Ned was received with an eager 'Enter!' as he knocked. Surely enough, the room was illuminated by dozens of candles, their ruddy flame revealing Cersei Lannister's naked body.

For a moment, his eyes lingered on the sight before him, and Eddard Stark found himself unimpressed once more. 

"I almost thought you would not come," she said, her voice breathless with anticipation as he closed the door behind him.

"Don't worry, I'm here now," the cold words slipped from his tongue as he approached. "Go under the covers."

"Ah, come, let me soothe your frustration-mphf-"

The pillow silenced her filthy tongue for good. Her limbs thrashed, but the wine had made her weak and slow, and Eddard Stark used the covers to restrain her with his weight and his other hand easily. In two minutes, Cersei Lannister stopped twitching.

He remained unmoving for another ten minutes until he was sure Cersei Lannister was dead for good. 

'Don't forget to cover your tracks. It would be best if it looked like an accident.'

Ned forced his stiff limbs to grab her wine pitcher and poured a generous amount on her face, frozen in terror, and around it on the bed before forcing the rest down her throat. 

"May you burn in the Seven Hells for eternity!" Eddard cursed as he left the room. "You and your entire rotten family."

'It is good that you swore fealty to Tommen, and he's betrothed to Stannis' daughter, then,' Theon cackled in his mind. 'Forget about pesky things like the truth; you're honour-bound to serve him. Regardless, Durrandon's line shall still rule in the end, so I see no issue.'