Unfortunately, today there will only be short chapters, so I apologize in advance.
ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 36: The Web of King's Landing
POV: Prince Eddard "Ned" Stark (300 AC)
Time is an implacable river, whose waters run too fast for a man to keep track of every bend without feeling the weight of the years accumulating in his bones. As I watched the immense and prosperous city that had grown around Moat Cailin, I couldn't help but notice the silver threads that now dominated almost my entire beard. I was growing old. And Robert, in the far South, was also decaying under the weight of his own golden crown and excesses.
The news of Jon Arryn's sudden and mysterious death had arrived like a cold blade to my chest. He had been more than a tutor to me and Robert in our youth; he had been the father who guided us when the world collapsed in blood during the rebellion. And now, the Lord of the Vale was dead. But the true weight of that loss came not just with the mourning, but with the official raven that followed: Robert Baratheon, the King of the South, demanded my presence in the Red Keep to assume the office of Hand of the King. He needed me to govern his crumbling realm.
Before making any tactical decision, I had consulted the Emperor. Arawyn simply shrugged through the magical communication glass, showing his usual disdain for Southern intrigue.
"— I care little if an old Southern man died of old age or poison, uncle, —" Arawyn had said with his calm, sovereign voice. "— You have worked, ruled, and bled enough for the North over the past decades. If you want to march South and play politics with Robert, the choice is entirely yours. I will not stop you. To ensure those dogs in the South know exactly who you represent and do not try any physical idiocy against your retinue, I will send fifty of my best soldiers from the Northern army and two Black Guards from the imperial elite to escort you. But the political mud of that court? That is entirely yours."
With the guarantee that the North would be secure under the Emperor's watch, I returned to the solar of Moat Cailin to inform my wives, Cersei Lannister and Ashara Dayne.
Ashara raised her violet eyes from her parchments, her serene beauty seemingly untouched by time, and asked about my nephew's reaction, breathing a sigh of relief upon learning that Arawyn had provided an elite escort to ensure our physical safety.
Cersei, for her part, maintained a rigid and protective stance by the fireplace. She was well aware that the betrothal of our youngest daughter, Arya, to the crown prince of the South, Gendry Baratheon, was the primary political goal of my father-in-law Tywin Lannister for this trip.
"— I am only agreeing to go down to that cesspool of King's Landing because I need to see with my own eyes if this young prince is a decent and worthy man, —" Cersei declared, a feline sharpness in her eyes. "— I know all too well the kind of man Robert Baratheon is. And I swear, Ned, I will never hand my daughter Arya over to lie with a filthy, boundary-less pig like his father. If the boy is not worthy, the alliance dies before it even begins."
I respected Cersei's maternal ferocity; she knew the gears of the Southern court better than anyone.
Before we began our travel preparations, I gathered my children in the family hall. Only Sansa and Myrcella were not present in Moat Cailin. Sansa remained in Winterfell as Arawyn's most dedicated magical apprentice, while Myrcella had stayed in the capital precisely to accompany her betrothed, Prince Aegon Targaryen.
During my last visit to my nephew's court, I had ended up walking in without knocking at the guest pavilion and caught the two kissing passionately and intimately by the hearth. Seeing that glimpse brought me immense relief; it showed that Aegon, despite all the heavy secrets and traumas he carried in his mind, was finally managing to deal with his internal problems with the help of Myrcella's love. The young prince was in the heart of the North also to choose the territory where he would raise his future lordship castle, with the fertile region of the Blessings being the most likely choice.
Robb Stark, the King of the Lands Above the Neck, approached the oak table. He wore his polished bronze crown and imposing royal garments.
"— I still think this trip is a mistake, father, —" Robb warned, touching the hilt of the sword on the table. "— The history of our house shows that a Stark who decides to march South in response to the call of Southern crowns never finds a happy ending. It always ends in tragedy and death."
Bran, whose eyes seemed to hold ancient secrets of the greensight, nodded beside his brother.
"— I also feel a deep unease when trying to look at King's Landing over the coming months, father, —" little Bran whispered. "— There is something thick, a barrier of dark mist and magical smoke, that is actively preventing my visions from crossing the Neck. I cannot see what awaits you there."
"— There is no need for panic, my children, —" I replied, trying to keep the steady voice of a protective father. "— I will travel accompanied by strong men, my wives, Arya, and under the protection of Arawyn's own Black Guard. We will know how to defend ourselves from any trap."
Bran looked at me with gravity before concluding:
"— Just remember, father... in the past, the Emperor himself was also prevented from seeing the future because of enemy sorceries. Be careful."
Our departure from Moat Cailin occurred in an imposing manner through the waters of the great artificial canal that Arawyn had opened, connecting the swamp directly to the shipping lanes of the Shivering Sea to allow the empire's commercial flow.
The traveling party was robust and exuded the military might of the North. In addition to my wives, Cersei and Ashara, and Arya with her direwolf Nymeria, I marched accompanied by fifty veteran soldiers of the imperial army and the two imposing Black Guard warriors, whose dark armor seemed to absorb all the heat of the winter sun around us.
Beside me by the carriage walked my direwolf, Neve. He was a magnificent specimen with a thick grey coat and cold eyes. I had originally wanted to name him Inverno, but my nephew had anticipated me years ago and taken that name for his own gigantic black wolf. When I asked Ashara and Cersei for name suggestions for the beast, the two of them began suggesting aristocratic names so full of pomp, fluff, and Southern terms that they were considerably worse than the simple name Ros had given to Arawyn's wolf. To my own despair, and not wanting to listen to any more of those senseless suggestions, I decided to call him simply Neve.
Arya traveled in the carriage beside Cersei, keeping her eyes fixed on the landscape that changed gradually as the ship skirted the Claw Isle peninsula toward the warm waters of the South. Her purpose on the trip was to test her compatibility and chemistry with Prince Gendry; and although she detested the idea of behaving like a courtly lady, she was eager to see what the South held for her direwolf, Nymeria.
When our ship finally docked at the port of King's Landing, the contrast with the clean, purified cities of the North hit me like a physical punch to the pit of my stomach. The air of the Southern capital was hot, stifling, and laden with the unbearable stench of open sewers, human sweat, and urban decay. It was a human anthill that seemed to be slowly rotting under the summer sun.
The reception at the port was carried out in the purest and most boisterous style of Robert Baratheon. As soon as I stepped off the gangplank, the massive figure of the King of the South came to meet me with heavy steps. Robert had gained considerable weight in recent years; his former warrior's musculature had been buried beneath layers of fat under red velvet mantles, and his breath constantly reeked of strong wine. However, his booming laughter and the strength of his embrace, which almost broke my ribs, showed that his old rustic energy was still there in some way.
"— Ned! You magnificent grey wolf! —" Robert roared, punch-slapping my shoulder with affection. "— By the gods, how good it is to see a real face in this filthy city of liars and sycophants!"
I returned the greeting with sincerity, but my gaze soon drifted to the royal entourage waiting just behind him. And it was there that I met the cold, calculating, and rancorous eyes of the Queen of the South: Catelyn Tully.
The eldest daughter of Hoster Tully was flawless in her blue and silver silk garments, but her expression was one of gélid, unmistakable hostility as she stared at my family. Catelyn had been rejected by Arawyn to be my wife. The rancor of that past rejection seemed to continue burning with the same force in her mind.
"— Well... who would have thought that one of the magnificent and proud wolves of the North would agree to descend from his glorious ice throne just to join us, poor ordinary people of the South? —" Catelyn commented, her voice coming out sharp as a blade as she offered us an exaggeratedly sarcastic curtsy.
"— I am also just an ordinary man, Your Grace, —" I replied with my usual calm, without breaking eye contact. "— And only Emperor Arawyn possesses an ice throne in Winterfell."
Hearing my nephew's name seemed to deeply irritate the Queen of the South. Her lips tightened into a thin line of fury, and her hands clenched the fabric of her dress.
I found myself wondering if she still harbored so much rancor simply over the harsh words we exchanged in Riverrun years ago, or if there was something else behind that visceral reaction.
Deizing the tension aside, I focused my attention on the young crown prince riding right behind Robert. Gendry Baratheon was fifteen years old, sporting the characteristic black hair of his lineage, but his manners were calm, refined, and extremely polite. He had been raised almost entirely under the direct tutelage of Jon Arryn and with the constant presence of his mother, without Robert's chaotic involvement in his daily education. The boy seemed to be a true leader in the making, which brought me great relief and made Cersei, who watched him intently from the carriage, soften her defensive expression. There was hope that the boy was, indeed, someone decent.
The Small Council and the Threat of Venom
On the day after our arrival, I was formally led to my first official meeting of the Small Council.
The atmosphere in the council chamber was the absolute opposite of everything I knew in the North. In Winterfell, decisions were made in a transparent and direct manner, focusing on efficiency. Here, the air was heavy with the sweet perfume of lavender and exotic essences, and every word spoken seemed to carry three hidden meanings.
I sat in the chair destined for the Hand of the King, observing the members already positioned around the polished mahogany table.
Lorde Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, smiled with that calculating mockery that gave me an almost uncontrollable urge to test the density of his jaw with my fist. Varys, the Spider, kept his hands hidden inside his silk sleeves, exhaling a sweet scent and watching my every move with serpent eyes. Grand Meistre Pycelle dozed lightly in his chair, while Renly Baratheon, the Master of Laws, displayed his usual vanity in elegant green robes.
"— Welcome to our web, Lord Stark, —" Baelish commented with a sly smile. "— I hope the cold of the North has not frozen your ability to deal with the finances and intrigues of our small and indebted Southern kingdom."
"— The cold of the North only teaches us to cut what is unnecessary more quickly, Lord Baelish, —" I replied dryly, keeping my gaze fixed on him until his smile faltered slightly.
As the meeting progressed and reports on the crown's catastrophic finances were presented, I felt a growing unease settle at the base of my neck.
But the detail that truly kept me on absolute alert all afternoon was the memory of Robert's words from the night before, when we were drinking alone in his chambers. He had confessed to me, with eyes watery with dread and in a rare moment of sobriety, that he felt Jon Arryn had not died of old age or natural causes. Robert firmly believed his old tutor had been quietly murdered right under his nose.
While observing Pycelle's evasive behavior, Littlefinger's fake smiles, and Varys's calculating silence around the table, my war veteran instincts began to scream in my mind.
That place was a nest of hungry vipers. And my wolf instincts, molded by the battles and the rawness of the North, had never failed me before. Jon Arryn had not died of old age. There was a silent poison running through the veins of King's Landing, and I was determined to unmask the web of that betrayal before it could reach my own family.