Chapter 44: Whispers, Steel, and Small Victories

The Hand's chamber was filled with the scent of parchment and candle wax, the air heavy with ink-stained decisions. Lord Eddard Stark sat behind his desk, deep in his latest set of reports, quills and maps scattered across the wooden surface. The weight of the realm rested on his shoulders, and it showed in the lines creasing his forehead.

I entered quietly, as I always did, and cleared my throat to announce myself. Ned looked up, his gaze sharp as steel, though fatigue dulled its edge.

"You have something?" he asked, setting his quill down.

I nodded. "A rumor, my lord. A whisper that keeps finding its way into dark corners."

He exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Rumors are a currency in this city, but not all are worth the coin they demand. What is it?"

I stepped forward, lowering my voice just enough to suggest secrecy. "I've been hearing murmurs that Jon Arryn was looking into something delicate before his death. He wasn't searching for simple corruption or treason—he was searching for bloodlines. The king's bloodline, to be precise."

Ned's fingers tensed against the table. "Go on."

"It seems he was particularly interested in the king's bastards. And not just one or two—he was tracing their existence all across the city."

Ned's jaw tightened. "And why would that matter? Robert has never been discreet in his appetites."

I tilted my head. "Because perhaps he wasn't just searching for the bastards. Perhaps he was comparing them—to the current royal heirs."

The bells in Ned's head started ringing, just as I had intended. His mind was already sharp, and I had just handed him a whetstone.

He leaned back, his expression unreadable. "You're saying Jon Arryn believed there was something unnatural about Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen?"

I simply shrugged. "I'm not saying anything, my lord. Only relaying the whispers of the streets. But it does make one wonder why a man as powerful as Jon Arryn would die right after starting such an inquiry."

Ned was silent, his fingers drumming against the desk. Then, after a long moment, he nodded. "This stays between us. I will look into it myself."

I inclined my head. "Of course, my lord."

As I left the chamber, I knew I had planted the seed. What Ned did with it would determine the course of the coming days.

Lessons in the Art of Survival

Arya Stark was a quick learner, but her greatest strength was also her greatest weakness—she had fire, but no patience. Each time I corrected her stance or adjusted her grip, she would grit her teeth, eager to move faster, to strike harder.

"You're fighting too angrily," I told her as we sparred in the quiet of an abandoned corridor. "Anger makes you predictable."

She frowned. "But you fight with strength!"

I twisted my sword just slightly, knocking hers aside with ease. "Strength without control is just wasted movement. You need to know when to strike and when to wait. The best fighters don't fight unless they must."

Arya narrowed her eyes. "Syrio Forel says there is only one god, and his name is Death. And that we should say 'Not today' when he comes."

I smirked. "A fine sentiment. But let me tell you something else—Death does not listen to prayers. He does not wait for permission. He takes when it pleases him. That is why you must learn not only to fight, but to survive."

She was silent for a moment before nodding. "Teach me that, then. The art of survival."

I studied her, then smiled. "Very well. First lesson—know when to run."

She laughed, but there was understanding in her eyes.

A Gift for Sansa

Where Arya was all fire and wild energy, Sansa was grace and refinement. Where Arya sought strength, Sansa sought beauty. And so, when I thought of a way to impress her, I knew it couldn't be with words or action—it had to be something tangible, something rare.

It took effort and some careful dealings, but I finally secured it—a perfectly woven, deep blue silk ribbon from Myr, embroidered with silver threads. Something incredibly difficult to find in the markets of King's Landing, something usually reserved for the highborn ladies of court.

When I found her in the castle gardens, she was seated beneath the shade of a tree, idly plucking at petals of a flower. She looked up as I approached, her expression carefully composed, as always.

"You seem troubled, Lady Sansa," I said lightly.

She sighed. "It's nothing."

I sat beside her, pulling the ribbon from my sleeve and holding it out. "For you."

Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her face. "What is this?"

"A piece of Myrish silk. The finest you'll find in the city."

She hesitated, then took it, running her fingers over the fabric with something close to reverence. "It's beautiful… but why give this to me?"

I smiled. "Because beauty should have beautiful things. And because sometimes, it's nice to receive something without having to ask."

Sansa's cheeks flushed, her fingers curling around the gift. "Thank you. This… this means a lot."

I inclined my head. "It's only a ribbon."

She shook her head. "No, it's more than that."

For a moment, we sat in silence, and I knew that I had won another small piece of her trust.