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The Tower of the Hand had never felt smaller. Eddard Stark paced its length for what must have been the hundredth time, his boots wearing a path in the rushes. Each circuit took him past the door to Jon's chamber, where Maester Pycelle and his assistants had been working for three hours now. Three hours of muffled voices, clanking instruments, and the occasional groan that made Ned's jaw clench until his teeth ached.
"My lord, you should sit," Jory Cassel suggested from his post by the main door. "Wearing yourself out won't help the lad."
"I'll sit when I know he'll live," Ned replied, though his legs protested the constant movement. He'd been on his feet since the melee ended, since he'd watched them carry Jon's broken body from the field. The boy had looked so small beneath the Mountain's shadow.
The door to Jon's chamber finally opened. Maester Pycelle emerged, his chains clinking with each labored step, robes stained with blood that looked black in the lamplight. The old maester's face was drawn with exhaustion, his usually pristine beard disheveled.
"Well?" Ned demanded, crossing to him in three quick strides.
Pycelle raised a gnarled hand. "The boy will live, Lord Stark. The gods were watching over him today."
The relief hit Ned. He had to grip the back of a chair to keep from swaying. "His injuries?"
"Extensive, I'm afraid." Pycelle shuffled to the table, pouring himself wine with trembling hands. "Three ribs broken, two more cracked. His right shoulder was dislocated—we've reset it, but the ligaments are badly torn. The gash above his eye required twelve stitches. Various contusions, a possible fracture to his left cheekbone..." The maester paused, taking a long drink. "It's a miracle his spine wasn't damaged when the Mountain struck him."
"His head?" Ned pressed. "The Mountain hit him more than once."
"No vomiting, which is promising. If there were bleeding in the brain, we'd have seen signs by now." Pycelle set down his cup, meeting Ned's eyes. "But we won't know the full extent until he wakes. Head injuries can be... unpredictable. He may have difficulties with memory, with balance. Time will tell."
"How long until he recovers?"
"Recovers?" Pycelle's laugh was dry as parchment. "My lord, that boy won't be walking properly for at least a month. Full recovery? Three months, perhaps four. And that's if infection doesn't set in. If the lung isn't punctured by those ribs. If, if, if." He shook his head. "He needs rest, careful watching, and the gods' own luck."
Ned nodded slowly. "Thank you, Maester. You've done good work today."
"I live to serve, Lord Stark." Pycelle gathered his bloodied instruments with trembling hands. "The boy is fortunate to have survived. The Mountain... well, he's not known for his restraint in melees."
"No," Ned agreed quietly. "He's not."
"I'll check on him again in a few hours. If there's any change—"
"You'll inform me immediately." It wasn't a question.
"Of course, my lord." Pycelle bowed as deeply as his old bones allowed. "If you'll excuse me, I must clean these instruments and prepare fresh bandages."
Ned waited until the maester shuffled out, chains clinking with each step. Only when the door closed did he turn to Jory.
"I want guards on Jon. Four men, at all times. They're to check anyone who enters that room—I don't care if it's a maester, a servant, or the King himself."
Jory straightened. "My lord?"
"You heard me. Four guards on Jon. And I want five with each of my daughters, day and night."
"That's most of our men—"
"Then use them all." Ned's voice brooked no argument. "The Mountain nearly killed my son today, Jory. I won't risk another attempt."
"You think someone might—"
"I think we're in King's Landing, where people die in their beds as often as on the battlefield." Ned moved to the window, staring out at the sprawling city below. "We all saw what happened in that melee. The Mountain carved a path straight to Jon. That wasn't random violence."
Jory's hand went to his sword. "Who would want to hurt the lad?"
"I don't know." The lie came easily—he'd been telling it for fourteen years. "But until we leave this city, we take no chances. Double the watch on the Tower. No one enters without my permission."
"Yes, my lord." Jory departed quickly, barking orders to the guards in the hall.
Alone at last, Ned sank into a chair, head in his hands. The Mountain had tried to kill Jon. Not defeat him, not humble him—kill him. And someone had given that order.
Lyanna, he thought, seeing his sister's face as clearly as if she stood before him. Gray eyes wide with fever, dark hair plastered to her pale skin, bloody roses clutched in her dying hands. Promise me, Ned. Promise me.
He'd kept that promise for fourteen years. Claimed Jon as his bastard, stained his own honor to protect the boy. But now...
Purple eyes. Gods, why did Jon have to inherit those distinctive purple eyes? Ned had hoped they'd darken with age, turn gray or blue or even brown. Anything but that particular shade of violet that marked Valyrian blood. But if anything, they'd grown more pronounced as Jon aged. Just as his features had sharpened into something too beautiful for a common bastard—high cheekbones, refined jaw, an elegance that spoke of royal blood.
And the singing. Ned's chest tightened at the memory. Jon had been nine years old when Ned first discovered that gift. Little Arya, barely two, had been wailing inconsolably for hours. Nothing worked, not Catelyn's soothing rocks, not Ned's desperate attempts at distraction. The entire household was at wit's end when Jon had appeared in the doorway, drawn by his sister's cries. Without asking permission, he'd crossed to where they stood and began to sing. Some Northern lullaby Ned had never heard before. Arya had gone silent within moments, gray eyes wide with wonder, tiny fingers reaching for Jon's face.
For one terrible moment, Ned had been transported back to the tourney of Harrenhal, listening to Rhaegar Targaryen enchant an entire hall with nothing but his voice. The same perfect pitch, the same ability to make the world stop and listen. Even at nine, Jon had that gift...that curse...of his father's blood.
Jon Snow was no bastard at all.
Someone knew. Someone had to know. Why else send the Mountain after a boy in a melee? It was Elia and her children all over again—eliminate the Targaryen threats, wipe the bloodline clean. Last time it had been Tywin Lannister who'd ordered those murders, everyone knew it even if none dared speak it aloud.
But Tywin had only arrived yesterday, had been at Casterly Rock when the melee was arranged. He couldn't have organized this. Which left...
Cersei. The Queen who'd shown such interest in Jon at Winterfell. Who'd insisted he come south. Who'd watched from the royal box as the Mountain tried to split him open.
Yet if Cersei knew the truth, why not simply arrest Jon? Accuse him of being a Targaryen pretender? She had the power, the guards. One word from her and Jon would be in black cells or worse. Why the elaborate assassination attempt?
Unless she wasn't certain. Unless she suspected but needed Jon dead before anyone else could confirm those suspicions. Dead men tell no tales, after all. And dead bastards raise no banners.
Ned stood abruptly. They had to leave. Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest. He'd resign his position as Hand, take his family, and ride for Winterfell before anyone could stop them. Let Robert rot with his Lannister in-laws. Let the realm burn. Ned had made one promise that mattered—to his dying sister—and he'd be damned if he'd fail it now.
Sansa would be heartbroken. She'd been dreaming of her marriage to Joffrey, of being queen someday. But Ned had seen enough of the crown prince to know that dream would become a nightmare soon enough. And Arya—wild, willful Arya—she'd probably thank him for leaving this pit of vipers.
As for Jon...
A knock interrupted his thoughts. The door opened before he could respond, and one of his guards entered, face grave.
"My lord, forgive the intrusion, but the King commands your immediate presence in the throne room."
Ned's blood turned to ice. "Commands?"
"His word, my lord. He said to come at once."
This was it, then. Arrest or accusation or worse. Ned's hand went to the pommel of his sword, a gesture that didn't go unnoticed by the guard.
"How many men does the King have with him?"
"I... I'm not certain, my lord. The messenger didn't say."
Ned weighed his options. He could refuse, barricade himself in the Tower, try to hold out until... until what? Until Robert sent the whole Kingsguard to drag him out?
No. Better to face this with dignity. If it was to be his end, he'd meet it on his feet.
"Jory!" he called, and his captain appeared instantly. "You're with me. Bring ten men."
"My lord?"
"We're going to see the King. The rest stay here, guard my daughters with your lives. If something happens to me—" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "If I don't return, get them out of the city. North. Fast as horses can carry them. Understood?"
Jory's face had gone pale, but he nodded. "What about the boy? Jon?"
"Take him too, if he can travel. If not..." Ned closed his eyes briefly. "Do what you must to protect him. Now come."
They marched through the Red Keep's corridors like men going to war. Servants scattered from their path, whispers following in their wake. Ned kept his hand on his sword, drawing comfort from the cold steel. Whatever waited in the throne room, he'd face it. He'd kept his promise this long.
Promise me, Ned.
"I'm trying, Lyanna," he whispered, too quiet for anyone to hear. "Gods help me, I'm trying."
The great doors of the throne room groaned open, revealing a scene that made Ned's jaw tighten. Robert sat slouched on the Iron Throne, wine cup in hand, looking as comfortable as a man sitting on a bed of nails—which, Ned supposed, wasn't far from the truth. The throne's thousand blades seemed to mock the king's soft bulk, a warrior's seat occupied by a man who'd grown too fond of feasting.
At the foot of the throne stood Tywin Lannister, straight-backed and imperious as always, his crimson cloak pooled around him like blood. Ser Jaime flanked him in his white armor, hand resting on his sword. A contingent of Lannister guards filled the space behind them, red cloaks and lion helms creating a wall of crimson and gold.
And there, lurking in the shadows like a great scarred hound, stood Sandor Clegane. If the man felt any grief over his brother's maiming, it didn't show. If anything, there was something almost like satisfaction in the burned ruin of his face.
"Ned!" Robert called out, gesturing with his wine cup and sloshing burgundy onto the throne's steps. "Finally! Let's get this bloody business over with."
Ned advanced, Jory and his men spreading out behind him. "Your Grace. Lord Tywin." He gave the barest nod of acknowledgment. "I was told you commanded my presence."
"Command is a strong word," Robert muttered, shooting a glare at Tywin. "Lord Lannister here insisted we settle this matter immediately, something about a wounded dog."
"There is a matter to settle?" Ned kept his voice level, though relief flooded through him. This was about the Mountain's injury, not Jon's bloodline. "The melee is concluded. My son survived. Barely."
Tywin stepped forward, his golden eyes cold as winter frost. "Your bastard brutally maimed a noble lord of House Clegane. Such savagery demands recompense."
From the shadows, Sandor Clegane snorted, a sound that might have been laughter if it hadn't been so bitter.
Tywin's eyes flicked to the Hound, a warning in them, before returning to Ned. "Ser Gregor has lost an eye. His fighting days may be over. The crown owes him—"
"The crown owes him nothing," Ned interrupted. "Your dog attacked my son with the intention to kill him. Everyone saw it. He carved through the field like a butcher, and when he reached Jon, he tried to split him in half. My boy defended himself."
"By using an underhanded trick," Tywin countered. "A hidden blade—"
"A tournament dagger, carried by half the men on that field." Ned took a step closer, aware of his men tensing behind him. "Or perhaps Lord Tywin would prefer we discuss underhanded tricks? The Mountain seemed quite... focused on a fourteen-year-old boy. One wonders what drives such dedication."
The throne room went deadly quiet. Robert straightened slightly, suddenly more interested.
"That's a serious implication, Lord Stark," Tywin said softly, dangerously.
"Is it? I merely observed that your creature didn't fight Jon—he hunted him." Ned's voice was cold as northern steel. "Though I suppose we shouldn't be surprised. Perhaps the Mountain has grown too comfortable with... easier prey."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning nothing, my lord. Though I imagine real combat must be quite different from his usual activities." Ned paused, letting his words hang. "After all, women and babes don't fight back, do they? All that practice with defenseless victims—no wonder he struggled when faced with someone who could actually hold a sword."
The silence that followed was deafening. Jaime let go of his sword and looked deeply uncomfortable. The Lannister guards shifted restlessly. Even Robert had gone pale.
Tywin's face could have been carved from stone. "You speak of old history—"
"I speak of patterns," Ned replied evenly. "A man who finds glory in crushing infant skulls and forcing himself on defenseless women might naturally seek out boys to terrorize. It's a sickness, really. Perhaps that's why he targeted my son—old habits."
"Those were acts of war—"
"Were they?" Ned's voice dripped with contempt. "I've fought in wars, Lord Tywin. I've killed men. But I've never needed to prove my strength against babes at the breast. That takes a special kind of monster. Or perhaps just a Lannister's dog."
"ENOUGH!" Robert's voice boomed through the hall, wine cup clanging as he slammed it down. "Seven hells, both of you!" He glared at Tywin. "Lord Lannister, were you at the melee or not?"
"I was, Your Grace."
"Then you bloody well saw what happened. Your Mountain went after the Stark boy like he had a personal vendetta. The lad defended himself. End of story."
"Your Grace," Tywin began, his tone measured, "surely you can see—"
"What I see," Robert interrupted, "is you whining about tournament injuries like some green boy at his first melee." The king laughed, a harsh sound. "Gods, Tywin, have you gone soft in your old age? Men get hurt in melees. They lose eyes, fingers, sometimes their lives. It's the nature of the bloody game!"
"This was different—"
"Was it?" Robert leaned forward, the throne's blades pressing against his back. "Because I seem to remember last year's tourney at Lannisport. Your golden son there"—he pointed at Jaime—"threw sand in Ser Balon Swann's eyes, then knocked him unconscious while he was blind. Did anyone demand compensation? Did the Swanns come crying to me about underhanded tricks?"
Jaime's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"That was different," Tywin insisted. "Ser Jaime didn't permanently maim—"
"No, he just left Balon Swann pissing blood for a week," Robert said flatly. "And what about the tourney at Highgarden, when your Mountain killed those three hedge knights? Were their families compensated? Were there demands for justice?" The king's voice grew harder. "You don't get to change the rules just because your pet monster finally met someone who could hurt him back."
"Your Grace," the Lord of Casterly Rock tried one more time, "surely there must be some—"
"There must be nothing," Robert cut him off. "The boy won. Your Mountain lost. That's the end of it." He paused, then added with dark humor, "Though if you want compensation, I suppose we could let the Stark boy take Gregor's other eye."
"You wouldn't dare—"
"Wouldn't I?" Robert stood suddenly, looming above them all on the throne's dais. "I'm the bloody king, Tywin. I'll dare whatever I please. And what pleases me right now is ending this farce. Your man lost. The Stark boy won. Accept it with grace, or don't—I don't particularly care. But this matter is finished."
Tywin stood perfectly still for a long moment, and Ned could practically see him calculating odds, weighing options, measuring the cost of pushing further. Finally, the old lion inclined his head—the barest possible acknowledgment of defeat.
"As Your Grace commands," he said. "Come, Jaime."
He turned and strode from the throne room, his guards falling in behind him like a crimson tide receding. Jaime lingered a moment longer, green eyes finding Ned's.
"Your son fights well," the Kingslayer said quietly. "He fights like..." He paused, something unreadable crossing his face. "Like someone I knew once. Give him my regards when he wakes."
Then he too was gone, white cloak swirling behind him.
Robert slumped back onto the throne the moment the doors closed. "Seven hells, Ned. You certainly know how to make enemies."
"I didn't make anything, Your Grace. They came for my boy."
"Aye, they did." Robert's eyes, clearer now despite the wine, studied Ned carefully. "Why, do you think? What's so special about your bastard that Tywin Lannister would risk my displeasure over him?"
For one heart-stopping moment, Ned thought Robert knew. Thought his old friend had finally put together the pieces—purple eyes, when Jon was born, Lyanna's death. But then Robert reached for more wine, and the moment passed.
"Probably just Cersei being Cersei," the king muttered. "Your boy defended his sister, telling the truth about Joffrey at the Trident. Woman holds grudges like a dog holds bones." He waved a meaty hand. "Go on, tend to your son. But Ned..."
"Your Grace?"
"Watch yourself. And watch the boy. The Lannisters don't forgive, and they certainly don't forget."
Ned bowed and withdrew, Jory and his men following. As they walked through the corridors back to the Tower of the Hand, Jory finally spoke.
"That was... dangerous, my lord."
"That was a warning," Ned corrected. "Tywin Lannister just declared war, he just hasn't started fighting it yet."
"What will you do?"
Ned's stride lengthened. "What I should have done the moment we arrived. We're leaving, Jory. As soon as Jon can travel, we're going home."
"Lord Stark," Jory said carefully, "the King won't like you abandoning your position..."
"The King can find another Hand. One who doesn't mind his son being hunted like a deer for sport." They reached the Tower, and Ned paused at the entrance. "Double the guard. Triple it if you have to. And Jory?"
"My lord?"
"Send ravens to White Harbor and Winterfell. Tell them to prepare. We may be coming home faster than expected, and we may have wolves at our heels when we do."
Jory nodded and hurried off to carry out his orders. Ned climbed the stairs to his solar, each step heavier than the last. He'd won this battle, but Tywin's eyes had promised war. And wars with lions rarely ended without blood.
I'll get him home, Lyanna, he promised silently. I'll get him somewhere safe. Even if I have to fight every Lannister in Westeros to do it.
Jon Snow
The world came in fragments—pain first, always pain, then sounds that might have been voices or might have been dreams. Jon couldn't tell anymore. Everything blurred together like ink in water, dark spreading into darker until even the hurt became something distant and strange.
He was chasing something. No, watching someone chase something. A girl with long dark hair streaming behind her as she ran through sunlit corridors, her laughter bright as bells. The cat she pursued was the ugliest thing Jon had ever seen, black and missing half an ear, with a face that looked like it had been stepped on. The girl's hands reached out, almost catching it, and when she turned her head, Jon saw eyes like his own. Purple. Bright as spring violets.
No one has eyes like mine, he thought muzzily. Father said they came from my mother...
The dream shattered. Pain rushed back—ribs screaming, shoulder throbbing, his face feeling like someone had taken a hammer to it. Jon tried to open his eyes, but only the left one cooperated. The right was swollen shut, he realized, remembering the Mountain's fist, the blade, the terrible moment when he'd thought this is how I die.
But he hadn't died. He was... where?
Darkness pressed in from all sides, broken only by the weak glow of candles. Three of them, Jon counted through his good eye, though counting hurt his head. They cast dancing shadows on stone walls, and he recognized the ceiling—his room in the Tower of the Hand. Safe. He was safe.
He tried to sit up.
"Don't."
The voice came from his right, soft as silk, gentle as summer rain. A hand pressed lightly against his chest, and even that careful touch sent fire through his ribs. Jon bit back a groan.
"You're too weak," the voice continued. Female, young, maybe his age, maybe a year or two older. "You shouldn't move yet. The maesters said your ribs..."
Jon tried to turn his head to see her, but the world spun violently. His good eye wouldn't focus properly, and the candlelight wasn't strong enough to pierce the shadows where she sat. He could make out a shape—slender, graceful, long hair.
"Who..." His voice came out as a croak. His throat felt like he'd been swallowing sand. "Who are you?"
A pause. He heard fabric rustling as she shifted closer, and suddenly he could smell something sweet, perfume maybe, or just her.
"I wanted to see you," she said instead of answering. "I wanted to make sure you were alright. I was... I was so worried when they carried you off the field. All that blood..."
"My lady," Jon managed, because she had to be highborn, that voice, that perfume. "Why... why would you worry about me? I'm just—"
"You're not just anything." There was something fierce in her voice now, protective. "You're brave. Stupidly brave, fighting the Mountain like that. He could have killed you."
"Think he tried," Jon mumbled, and was rewarded with what might have been a laugh or might have been a sob.
"He did. But you stopped him. You took his right eye." She sounded almost proud. "No one's ever hurt him like that before."
Jon's left hand moved instinctively to his side, seeking the dagger that should have been there. Gone, of course. Probably still stuck in the Mountain's skull.
"Why are you here?" he asked again, stronger this time. "If someone finds you in my room—"
"No one will find me. I know how to not be seen when I don't want to be."
There was something about the way she said it, sad and certain at once. Jon's good eye strained to see her better, catching glimpses, the curve of a cheek, the fall of dark hair, something glinting at her throat.
"I don't... I don't know you," he said, though something about her presence felt familiar; he felt as if he should know her.
"You do," she whispered. "You just don't remember."
That made no sense, but Jon's head hurt too much to puzzle it out. He tried to wet his lips, tasted copper. "What's your name?"
Another long pause. The candle flames flickered, and for just a moment, the light caught her face properly. Jon's breath stopped. She was beautiful—heartbreakingly so, with high cheekbones and full lips and those eyes, those impossible purple eyes that matched his own, and then he remembered... She was the girl that he saw after Prince Oberyn came to talk to him, warning him about certain Champions. Why was she here?
"I'm your sister," she said quietly.
The words didn't make sense. Jon's mind, foggy with pain and milk of the poppy, tried to process them. "I don't... I don't have a sister. Just Sansa and Arya, and you're not—"
"An older sister," she clarified, and her hand found his, squeezing gently. Her skin was warm, soft. Real. This wasn't a dream. "You have an older sister."
"No." Jon tried to pull his hand away, but he was too weak. "Father would have... he would have told me. If he had another—" He stopped, remembering. He was the bastard. If his father had other bastards, why would he know? But this girl, with her obvious nobility, she couldn't be—
"Sleep," she said, and her other hand touched his forehead, fingers cool against his fever-hot skin. "You need to rest. To heal."
"But—"
"Shh." She was singing now, very quietly, a melody Jon recognized but couldn't place. "I'll protect you. I promise. No one will hurt you while I'm here."
Jon wanted to protest, wanted to demand answers, but his eyelids were growing impossibly heavy. The milk of the poppy, he realized. They must have given him milk of the poppy, and now it was pulling him under again.
"Don't go," he mumbled, not sure why he said it.
"I'll come back," she promised, and he felt her lips press against his forehead, gentle as a butterfly's wing. "Rest now, (Valonqar) little brother."
Little brother. The words followed him down into darkness. But I don't have an older sister. I don't...
The dream took him again—the girl with dark hair chasing the ugly cat, laughing in the sunlight. But this time, Jon noticed things he'd missed before. The cat had a crown of flowers around its neck, wilting and ridiculous. The girl's dress was black and red, the colors of fire and blood. And when she caught the cat at last, gathering it into her arms, she looked directly at Jon.
"Found you," she said, and her purple eyes were bright with tears. "I finally found you."
Jon woke briefly—or thought he did—to find the room empty, the candles burned lower. Had she been real? Had any of it been real? His hand tingled where she'd held it, and that sweet scent still lingered in the air.
On the table beside his bed, something glinted. Jon's good eye focused with effort.
A ring. Silver, with a ruby. He'd never seen it before, but somehow he knew it was hers.
Your sister, the darkness whispered as it claimed him again. Your older sister.
But that was impossible.
Wasn't it?
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