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Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Kingslanding, The Crownlands
Tyrion Lannister descended the serpentine steps to Varys's chambers, each footfall echoing in the narrow passage like drops of water in a cave. The Spider kept his web in the bowels of the Red Keep, where stone sweated moisture and torchlight never quite reached the corners. Fitting lodgings for a creature who thrived in shadow.
The door stood ajar—an invitation or a trap, depending on one's perspective. Tyrion pushed through to find the eunuch bent over a brazier, dropping something into the flames that released a sickly-sweet smoke.
"Lord Tyrion." Varys straightened, silk robes rustling like autumn leaves. "What an unexpected pleasure. Though in King's Landing, I find the unexpected rarely brings pleasure."
"How philosophical." Tyrion hoisted himself onto a cushioned bench, legs dangling like a child's. The indignity never ceased to gall him. "I heard the most curious news from across the Narrow Sea. The dragon princess fled her wedding to the great Khal Drogo. Poor Viserys met a rather heated end in retaliation, or so the sailors say."
Varys's powdered face remained placid as a moonlit pond. "My, how quickly gossip travels. One might think the wind itself carries whispers."
"One might." Tyrion studied the eunuch's soft features, searching for cracks in the mask. "I'm told she absconded with a certain exiled knight. Jorah Mormont, wasn't it? Your little bird must have sung quite the song before his correspondence... ceased."
The briefest flicker crossed Varys's face—surprise, perhaps, or its careful imitation. Thank you for confirming it at least. Varys' voice rose a pitch, "My lord, you do me too much credit. I am but a humble servant—"
"Oh, spare me the mummer's farce." Tyrion waved a stunted hand through the perfumed smoke. "We both know Jorah's been singing your songs since he fled Westeros. The question is why your pet bear has gone silent."
A giggle bubbled from Varys's throat, high and tittering as a maiden's. "You are your father's son in more than stature, my lord. Very well. Yes, Ser Jorah aided the young Targaryen's escape. As to their current whereabouts..." He spread his hands, rings glinting in the brazier light. "Even spiders lose track of flies that venture too far from the web. But I shall know soon enough. I always do."
Tyrion filed that away, turning the conversation like a ship adjusting its sails. "Speaking of mysteries, I wonder what news reaches you from the North? Lord Stark's sudden journey to the Wall seemed rather... precipitous."
"The North?" Varys's voice dripped innocence thick as honey. "Lord Stark is known for his devotion to duty. Perhaps he simply wished to see his brother."
"Perhaps. But is brother was at Winterfell during our brief stay." Tyrion let silence stretch between them, taut as a bowstring. In his experience, men—even eunuchs—filled silence like water filled a cup. "Though one hears whispers of... incidents at Winterfell during his absence."
Varys moved to a side table, pouring wine with deliberate care. The liquid gurgled, deep red in the firelight. "Incidents? How delightfully vague. One might think you're fishing, my lord."
"One might think many things." Tyrion accepted the offered cup, noting how Varys's fingers lingered on the stem. "I merely wonder at the timing. Lord Stark refuses the King—his best friend—journeys north, and suddenly Winterfell suffers mysterious troubles. A suspicious mind might see patterns."
"Suspicious minds see patterns in clouds and portents in puddles." Varys settled into his chair with a whisper of silk. "Though I confess, certain birds have sung of... disruptions in the Stark household. Nothing specific reaches my ears, you understand. The North guards its secrets as jealously as a dragon guards gold."
Or as jealously as you guard yours, Tyrion thought, sipping the wine. Dornish red, unless he missed his guess. Expensive for a eunuch's salary. "I ask only because stability serves the realm. If something has befallen House Stark, questions will arise. Fingers will point. I'd rather they didn't point toward the throne."
"How noble." Varys's smile could have meant anything. "Your concern for the realm touches my heart. Though one wonders why Lord Tyrion troubles himself with Northern affairs when the capital offers such... varied entertainments."
"Call it intellectual curiosity." Tyrion swirled his wine, watching the legs run down the cup's sides. "Or call it self-preservation. When great houses clash, small men get crushed between them."
"Indeed." Varys leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. "If you truly wish to understand recent Northern... difficulties, perhaps you should speak with Lord Baelish."
Tyrion's cup paused halfway to his lips. "Littlefinger? What's that coin counter have to do with Winterfell?"
"Oh, nothing direct, I'm sure." Varys's eyes glittered like a crow's. "Though he did approach your lord father about raising taxes on grain shipments to the North. Lord Tywin initially found the notion... unpalatable."
"My father finds most notions unpalatable." Tyrion set down his cup harder than necessary. "Yet?"
"Yet somehow our Master of Coin's silver tongue prevailed. The taxes were approved just yesterday." Varys touched a finger to his lips, as if sealing a secret. "Curious timing, wouldn't you say? His Grace departed on a hunting expedition this very morning. A week in the Kingswood, I'm told, to prepare for the tourney honoring your father's appointment."
The pieces clicked in Tyrion's mind like cyvasse tiles sliding across a board. Robert gone, Tywin distracted with his new position, and Littlefinger moving to strangle Northern trade. All while something—an assassination attempt, if his father's sources proved true—had occurred at Winterfell.
"Curious indeed." Tyrion kept his voice level, though suspicion coiled in his gut like a serpent. "Though Lord Baelish and Lady Stark were childhood friends, were they not? Why would he seek to harm her house?"
Varys's smile widened, revealing small white teeth. "Curious, isn't it?"
They regarded each other across the brazier's smoke, two players recognizing the game between them. Tyrion could push, demand real answers, but Varys had given him what he came for—a thread to pull. Littlefinger. The man who'd risen from nothing to command the realm's purse strings, who'd become friends Catelyn Tully before she became Catelyn Stark. Tyrion paused, perhaps even loved.
"You've been most enlightening." Tyrion slid from the bench, his boots hitting stone with a dull thud. "As always."
"I live to serve." Varys remained seated, hands folded in his lap like a septon at prayer. "Do give your lord father my regards. Such a burden, managing the realm while His Grace... relaxes."
Tyrion paused at the door, glancing back at the eunuch's placid face. "Tell me, Varys. In all your whispers and songs, have you heard anything truly strange from the North? Beyond the usual political maneuverings?"
Something shifted in Varys's expression, there and gone like a cloud across the moon. "Strange, my lord? The North has always been strange to southern eyes. Old gods, heart trees, honor unto death. What could be stranger than that?"
"Indeed." Tyrion pulled the door closed behind him, leaving Varys to his perfumed smoke and secrets. As he climbed the steps, his mind turned over the conversation like a jeweler examining a stone. Littlefinger moving against the Starks while Ned traveled to the Wall. An assassination attempt—for what else could prompt such secrecy?—that his father knew of but hadn't shared with the small council.
And beneath it all, Varys's final deflection. The Spider knew something more, something that went beyond taxes and political schemes. Something strange enough that even Varys preferred not to speak of it.
Tyrion emerged into afternoon sunlight, blinking against the brightness. He needed wine—good wine, not Varys's mysterious vintage—and time to think. Littlefinger would be holding court in his brothels by evening, counting coppers and selling flesh. A conversation with the Master of Coin might prove illuminating.
Or dangerous. In King's Landing, the two often went hand in hand.
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Winterfell, The North
Ned's destrier's hooves rang against frozen stone as they clattered through the entrance of Winterfell, steam rising from the beast's flanks. His thighs burned from the relentless pace of ten days of hard riding from Castle Black, stopping only when the horses threatened to founder.
"My lord!" Rodrick Cassel rushed forward, reaching for the reins. "We weren't expecting—"
"Where is my daughter?" The words came out harsher than intended, but Ned had no patience for ceremony. Not now. Not with the memory of Waymar Royce's blue eyes still haunting him.
"In the Great Hall, my lord. With Lady Stark and—"
But Ned had already dismounted, his boots hitting the courtyard stones with purpose. Behind him, the Greatjon bellowed orders to stable hands, his voice carrying over the general commotion of their arrival. Men scattered like leaves before a storm.
The doors to the Great Hall stood open, and there—gods be good—stood his family. Whole. Alive. Sansa's auburn hair caught the firelight as she turned, her face crumpling the moment she saw him.
"Father!"
She flew across the hall, propriety forgotten, and Ned caught her in his arms. Her body shook against his chest, hot tears soaking through his travel-stained doublet. He could feel her ribs through her dress, too prominent—had she been eating? His hand found the back of her head, cradling it as he had when she was small.
"My sweet girl," he murmured into her hair. "You're safe. You're safe."
"I missed you so much," Sansa whispered against his chest, her words muffled by wool and leather. "I thought... I'd never see you again..."
"I'm here now." Ned's hand smoothed down her hair, catching on a small braid near her temple, one of those Northern styles she'd always disdained before. "And you're well? Truly?"
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and something in her expression made his chest tighten. Not fear, exactly, but a kind of careful consideration that belonged on older faces.
"I'm learning things, Father. Important things." Her fingers twisted in the fabric of his doublet. "Master Luke has started teaching me. Not just Robb and Jon and the others. Me too."
Ned's gaze flicked to Luke, standing silent by the hearth, then back to his daughter.
"Sansa... what?"
"I can feel things now," she rushed on, color rising in her cheeks. "When people lie, or when they're hiding something. And sometimes, when I touch certain objects, I can see..." She trailed off, searching his face. "Are you angry?"
Angry? Ned pulled her close again, buying himself a moment to think. His sweet daughter, who'd dreamed of knights and songs, now speaking of powers he barely understood. The world was changing faster than he could grasp, slipping through his fingers like water.
"No, sweet girl. Not angry." The words came out rough. "Just... surprised."
The rest of them stood back, Catelyn with her hands clasped so tight her knuckles showed white, Robb trying to look lordly despite the relief plain on his face, Jon hovering at the edge as always. And Luke Skywalker, still as stone, those strange eyes watching everything.
Arya bounced on her toes. "Father, you should have seen—"
"Arya." Catelyn's voice cut sharp. Not now, the tone said.
Ned held Sansa a moment longer, feeling her heartbeat slow against his chest. When she finally pulled back, her eyes were red but dry. Brave girl. His brave girl.
"Lord Umber," Ned called without turning. "The kitchens will see to you and the men. We'll speak at dinner."
"Aye, Lord Stark." The big man's voice held understanding. Some conversations weren't for outside ears.
Ned's gaze swept over those assembled. "Cat, Maester Luwin, Luke, Robb, Jon—my solar. Now." The Lord of Winterfell had spoken. Even Catelyn knew better than to argue with that tone.
They filed through the corridors in silence, their footsteps echoing off stone. Ned's mind raced ahead, cataloging questions, but he forced himself to focus on the present. One step. Then another. The familiar path to his solar, unchanged despite everything that had shifted in the world beyond these walls.
Inside, he didn't sit. Couldn't sit. The mask of the Warden of the North settled over his features as naturally as mail.
"Tell me." Two words, but they carried the weight of command. "Everything."
Catelyn stepped forward, her spine straight despite the tremor in her hands. "On that day, during the hour of the wolf, I was in the sept when I heard—" She paused, gathering herself. "The screaming. By the time I reached her chamber, it was over."
"The assassin?"
"Dead." Catelyn's eyes flicked to Luke. "A catspaw, we think. He had a Valyrian steel dagger. The assassin knew when to strike," Catelyn said, her voice steady despite the white-knuckled grip she kept on her own hands.
Ned's grey eyes narrowed. The timing stank of calculation, of someone who'd waited for the king's protection to withdraw before making their move.
"Someone in the royal party wanted my daughter dead." The words scraped raw in Catelyn's throat.
"Cat—" Maester Luwin began, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"No. Think on it. A Valyrian steel blade? That's no hedge knight's weapon. That's a lordling's prize, worth more than most holdfasts." Her blue eyes blazed with a mother's fury barely leashed. "Someone rich enough to own such steel, yet desperate enough to give it to a catspaw."
Jon shifted near the window, his dark eyes tracking between his father and Lady Stark. Robb stood rigid beside him, jaw working as he processed his mother's words.
"You're saying someone rode with us from King's Landing," Ned said slowly, testing the shape of the accusation. "Broke bread at my table. Smiled at my children. Then paid for Sansa's murder."
"I'm saying the wolf doesn't always wear grey," Catelyn replied. "Sometimes it comes dressed in crimson and gold."
Ned's jaw tightened. Valyrian steel. No common cutthroat carried such a blade.
"He held it to her throat," Catelyn continued, each word precise despite the emotion beneath. "Would have killed her, but Luke..." Another glance at the stranger. "Luke saved her. With his... fire sword."
"A fire sword." The words tasted strange on Ned's tongue.
"Yes."
Ned turned to Luke, who had remained silent throughout the telling. The man stood with an easy stillness that reminded Ned of master-at-arms he'd known—men who'd killed so often that violence had become as natural as breathing.
"May I see it?"
Luke inclined his head, reaching to his belt. The metal cylinder he produced looked harmless enough, no longer than a man's forearm and no wider than a sword hilt. Then Luke's thumb moved, and the air itself seemed to scream.
Green light erupted from the cylinder, casting strange shadows across the solar. Not fire, Ned realized. Something else. Something that hummed with power, making the hair on his arms stand on end. The blade—if blade it could be called—was perfectly straight, neither wavering nor flickering like true flame would.
"Gods," Robb breathed behind him.
Ned extended his hand, and after a moment's hesitation, Luke placed the weapon in his palm. The weight surprised him, it was lighter than it looked but perfectly balanced. The green light threw his face into sharp relief as he examined it, careful not to let that humming edge near anything.
This is not just magic, he thought. This is something else. Something crafted. But crafted by whom? And how?
After a long moment, he handed it back. Luke extinguished the blade with another touch, the cylinder disappearing beneath his plain black cloak.
Ned raised his hand then, extending it between them. Luke's eyes showed a flicker of surprise before he clasped Ned's forearm in the warrior's grip. The man's hand was callused in all the right places—a swordsman's hand, despite the impossible weapon he carried.
"You saved my daughter's life." Ned's voice came rough. "The hospitality of Winterfell and House Stark shall always be always open to you. This I swear by the old gods and the new."
Something passed across Luke's features, an understanding, perhaps, of the weight of such an oath. He inclined his head again, saying nothing, but his grip on Ned's arm tightened briefly before releasing.
Ned turned away, finally moving to his chair. The leather creaked as he settled into it, suddenly feeling every mile between here and Castle Black.
"We'll find who's responsible," he said, looking at each of them in turn. "Justice will be done. But..." The word hung heavy. "But, there's a greater threat rising. From the Wall."
The change was immediate. Luke straightened almost imperceptibly. Jon and Robb exchanged glances—not surprised, Ned noted, but knowing. As if they'd expected this.
Catelyn leaned forward. "The wildlings? Are they gathering to assault the Wall?"
"No." The memory of blue eyes in a dead face made him shudder. "Far worse."
"Ned, what could be worse?"
"Waymar Royce came back to life."
Silence. Absolute silence. Even the fire seemed to quiet its crackling.
"That's not possible," Maester Luwin said, his chains clinking as he shook his head. "The dead don't—"
"The dead walk." Ned's voice cut like Ice itself. "I saw it with my own eyes. Waymar Royce, dead for moons, rose from a table and tried to kill Lord Commander Mormont. Blue eyes like winter stars. Skin pale as fresh snow. And strong, gods, the strength in those dead hands."
"My lord," Luwin tried again, "perhaps some trick of the light, or a hallucination."
"I took his head off with Ice." The words fell like hammer blows. "This is no trick, no mummer's farce. The dead walk beyond the Wall, and they're coming south."
Catelyn had gone white. "The Others. The White Walkers. They're just stories, Ned!"
"As much stories as my children moving objects with a wave of their hands?"
That silenced her. Ned saw the moment she understood, truly understood. If one impossible thing could be real, why not another?
He looked at Luke. "This is what you warned me of. Your visions."
"Yes." Luke's voice carried certainty. "And it will grow worse. The darkness gathers its strength."
"Father," Robb stepped forward, every inch the heir despite his youth. "What should we do?"
But Luke spoke before Ned could answer. "We need knowledge. The last time this darkness came, the Long Night, someone found a way to stop it. The Citadel in Oldtown holds the oldest records in Westeros." He glanced at Luwin. "Is this not so, Maester?"
Luwin nodded slowly. "The Citadel's vaults contain texts dating back thousands of years. If answers exist anywhere..."
"Then I must go there." Luke's declaration rang with finality.
Ned's chest tightened. To lose their one advantage, the man who'd saved Sansa... "And my children's training?"
"They can progress without me for a time. They must practice what I've already taught them—discipline, control, meditation. The Force is not something mastered in days or weeks." Luke paused. "But I would take Robb and Jon with me."
"No." The word erupted from Eddard before thought could temper it. "Absolutely not."
Luke raised a hand not in a commanding manner, but calming. "Lord Stark, I understand your concerns. Your heir must remain here, I agree. But Jon is not your heir."
"He is under my protection." Eddard's voice had gone cold. "I'll not have him traipsing across the realm—"
"Why?" Jon's voice cracked with frustration. "Why can't I go? I'm not your heir, I'm just—"
The word hung unspoken. Bastard.
Eddard stared at the boy—his boy—and saw his sister's wildness in those grey eyes. The wolf blood, their father had called it. The need to run, to fight, to be more than what the world allowed.
"Lord Stark," Luke said quietly. "Might we speak privately?"
Eddard held Jon's gaze a moment longer, seeing hurt and confusion and something else—hope, perhaps. Then he turned to the others.
"Leave us."
"Ned—" Catelyn started.
"Leave us." The Lord of Winterfell had spoken.
Catelyn's lips pressed thin as they filed out with Luwin's chains singing mournfully and Robb casting worried glances between his father and half-brother. Jon went last, shoulders set in a line Eddard knew too well.
When the door closed, Luke moved to the window, gazing out at the practice yard below. "What are you afraid of?"
"I'm afraid of nothing." The lie tasted bitter.
"Fear is not weakness, Lord Stark. It's wisdom." Luke turned, those impossible eyes seeing too much. "You fear for Jon if he goes south. This has something to do with his… mother."
Eddard surged to his feet, hand moving instinctively to where Ice should hang. "You know nothing of—"
"I know nothing," Luke agreed, raising both hands peacefully. "And I won't pry into secrets that aren't mine to know. But understand this—the bond between a Jedi and his student runs deeper than blood. Jon is my padawan, my apprentice in the Force. I want only what's best for him."
Padawan. A strange word from strange lands in a day full of strangeness. But the conviction in Luke's voice...
"He's not ready for the world beyond these walls." Even to his own ears, the words sounded weak.
"The world is coming whether he's ready or not." Luke's voice gentled. "Lord Stark, I need to go to the Citadel. And Jon needs to continue his training. The darkness you saw at Castle Black—he'll face it one day. They all will. Would you have him face it unprepared?"
Silence stretched between them. Eddard stared into the fire, seeing her face in the flames. Promise me, Ned.
How many promises could one man keep? To his her, to his king, to his children?
"Then go only to the Citadel." The words came slowly, each one a stone in his chest. "Nowhere else. You will return immediately upon finding what you seek with Jon safe."
"Agreed, I would never let any harm befall my padawans."
"And Jon will go nowhere near King's Landing." The emphasis made Luke's eyebrows rise. "Nowhere near it. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
Eddard sank back into his chair, suddenly exhausted. "Then Jon may go."
Luke moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the iron ring. "Lord Stark, I know you promised to tell Jon about his mother. You should consider keeping that promise sooner rather than later."
The door closed with a soft click, leaving Eddard alone with the fire and his ghosts. He slumped in his chair, seeing those grey eyes everywhere—in the flames, in the shadows, in Jon's grey eyes.
Promise me, Ned.
"I'm trying," he whispered to the empty room. "Gods help me, I'm trying."
But the gods, old and new, offered no answers. Only the crackle of the fire and the weight of secrets too dangerous to speak aloud.