Lord Eddard Stark returned to the Tower of the Hand with a weary expression. The day had been long—he had just secured a swordmaster for Arya and rushed through another royal council meeting. War loomed on the horizon, and to his quiet alarm, Robert had begun to behave almost like a king again. The hunts had stopped, but the wine hadn't. Most responsibilities now fell squarely on Ned's shoulders.
As he stepped into his study, hoping for a brief moment of respite, a guard pushed the door open and saluted.
"My lord," the guard said, slightly out of breath, "a boy ran up to me just now, pressed this note into my hand, said only: 'Give this to the Hand of the King,' and vanished before I could ask anything."
He handed Ned a small, folded piece of parchment.
Ned opened it. His brow furrowed.
The note contained only an address—and beneath it, a title:
"The Genealogy and History of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms."
Ned sat still, the paper resting in his hand. His eyes darkened with thought. That book... He remembered Grand Maester Pycelle mentioning it once, in passing—Jon Arryn had been reading it obsessively before his sudden and inexplicable death.
At the time, Ned hadn't given it much thought. But now, the note felt like a whisper from the grave—fate guiding his eyes back to a clue he'd missed.
He glanced across the room. That very book lay on his desk, gathering dust. He had borrowed it weeks ago, combed through its pages, and found nothing of note. But now, paired with the mysterious address, its relevance was impossible to ignore.
His pulse quickened.
Jon knew something. Something worth dying for.
He stood, the weariness of the day forgotten.
Turning to the guard, he said firmly, "Prepare to accompany me. We're going to this address."
The guard blinked in surprise. "My lord? May I ask where exactly—"
Ned handed him the note. "Here. Don't ask questions. Just be ready."
Minutes later, Ned rode through the twisting streets of King's Landing with two guards at his side. The city was noisy as ever, the heat thick with the scent of sweat, sea, and ash. Eventually, they reached their destination.
It was... a blacksmith's shop.
Ned frowned.
The guard beside him looked up at the sign and muttered, "My lord, I believe this is the shop of Tobho Mott. They say he's one of the finest weapon smiths in the city."
Ned gave a slight nod. "Let's go in."
Inside, the air was hot and choked with the scent of metal and forge smoke. Sparks danced in the air. The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel echoed like a heartbeat.
Tobho Mott emerged from the back, wiping soot from his hands. When he caught sight of the Hand's sigil, he stiffened, then bowed deeply.
"My lord Stark. I'm honored by your presence. What might I do for you today?"
Ned's tone was direct.
"Tell me, has Lord Jon Arryn ever visited you?"
Tobho hesitated for the briefest moment, then replied, "Yes, my lord. Several times. But... he never commissioned any work from me."
Ned's brow creased. "Then why did he come?"
Tobho cast a glance toward the back of the shop.
"He came to see my apprentice."
Ned didn't pause. "Then I want to see him too."
"Of course, my lord."
A few moments later, a boy was brought forward. Young, strong, broad-shouldered—his face unmistakably familiar.
Ned stared.
It was as if he were looking at a younger version of Robert Baratheon.
Same eyes. Same jaw. The resemblance was uncanny.
"What's your name, boy?" Ned asked gently.
"Gendry, my lord."
"Tell me, Gendry—what did Lord Arryn ask you?"
The boy shrugged, nervous but honest.
"He asked about my life. How I liked my work, whether Master Mott treated me well... and about my mother."
Ned leaned in. "And what did you tell him?"
Gendry scratched the back of his neck, pushing aside a mop of black hair. "I told him I don't remember much. She died when I was little. I remember she had yellow hair and used to sing to me. She worked in a tavern, I think."
Ned said nothing for a moment. Then he smiled faintly, placed a hand on Gendry's shoulder, and tousled his hair.
"Keep your head down and your hammer steady, lad."
Gendry nodded, confused but comforted.
As the boy turned and walked away, Ned let out a long breath.
"If he ever wishes to learn the sword," Ned said to Tobho Mott, "send him to me."
The smith bowed again. "As you command, my lord."
Ned turned and walked out into the street.
The guards were waiting with his horse. One of them asked, "Back to the Tower, my lord?"
Ned nodded. "Aye. We return."
Yet even as they rode back, the questions mounted. The book. The visits. The bastard boy.
Jon had discovered something dangerous. And now Ned was starting to see why.
Far behind them, unnoticed in the crowd, shadowed figures watched their every move. As soon as Ned rode off, one of them slipped away into the alleyways, heading straight for the Red Keep.
Inside the stone halls of Maegor's Holdfast, Petyr Baelish glided through the corridors with graceful ease. His attire was fine but unassuming. He smiled warmly at every noble he passed, words charming and smooth, eyes betraying nothing.
When he reached a quiet stairwell, the smile faded.
With practiced silence, he slipped up the steps like a shadow in the wind, vanishing into the heights of the castle.