Not far from Renly's lavish pavilion, another camp marked by the golden rose of House Tyrell drew the eye.
The Tyrell encampment was vast, its tents adorned with elaborate patterns of vines and blossoms. The air was heavy with the scent of real roses. Servants in finely tailored green livery bustled about, a living display of the Reach's wealth and grandeur.
Eddard Stark had just stepped down from the King's dais, his mind weighed down by frustration.
Robert was lost in tournaments and feasts, indifferent to the mounting burdens of governance and the staggering debts piling higher by the day. Cersei's cold, piercing gaze still lingered on his back like the edge of a blade.
He needed air—clean, quiet, and free of the stifling pretense that choked King's Landing.
Before he realized it, his steps had carried him near the Tyrell camp.
The sight of the golden rose banner fluttering in the wind brought back the image of Renly's handsome face—and his words about "Margaery Tyrell resembling Lyanna."
Stannis's warning, Renly's and the Tyrells' shared ambitions, and the accusations surrounding Jon Arryn's death all twisted together in Eddard's mind like a tangled knot.
Perhaps he could glean something here—test the waters, see how much the Tyrells knew of Renly's intentions, and how far they were willing to go along with them.
He had barely walked a few paces when he spotted the Magister of the Reach, the Great Lord of Highgarden, and current Master of Ships—Lord Mace Tyrell.
The lord was a tall, broad man, a touch soft around the middle, dressed in a green brocade robe threaded with gold. A massive golden rose brooch gleamed on his chest beneath the sunlight. He stood before his grandest tent, speaking in a booming, confident voice to his second son, Garlan Tyrell, and several of his bannermen—his tone filled with pride, even self-satisfaction.
"Lord Hand!"
Lord Mace halted his speech as soon as he saw the Warden of the North approaching. His lips curved into a polite smile, though it failed to reach his eyes.
"What brings you to our camp, my lord?"
"Lord Mace. Ser Garlan."
Eddard inclined his head in greeting, his voice as calm and steady as ever.
"The tournament is quite the spectacle. I was merely taking a walk."
His gaze lingered briefly on Mace's lavish robes and his self-satisfied expression, and his unease deepened.
He thought of Jon Arryn's death—and of how House Tyrell had once thrown its support behind the Targaryens during the Rebellion.
Seeing the Hand's darkened expression, Lord Mace asked with forced geniality, "My lord, how are you finding life in the South? Adjusting well, I trust?"
Eddard replied, "Lord Mace, King's Landing is indeed unlike the North—more splendid, and more... complicated. Especially the matters of the Small Council. There's no end to them."
The smile on Mace Tyrell's face faltered.
After Jon Arryn's passing, Mace had convinced himself that the office of Hand of the King would be his. The wealth and might of the Reach, his loyalty during Robert's reign, his constant efforts to flatter and please—surely, it should have been enough.
Yet Robert had given the honor instead to Eddard Stark, a man from the distant North.
To Mace, it had been nothing short of an insult—an open humiliation.
"The duties of the Hand are weighty indeed," Mace said coolly. "I imagine Lord Eddard must be drowning in matters of state. The rest of us, fortunately, have the leisure to serve His Grace as we're commanded—and see to our own responsibilities."
Garlan Tyrell, quick to sense the tension beneath his father's words, frowned slightly.
He stepped forward, bowing politely to Eddard in an effort to defuse the situation. "The Lord Hand's tireless service to the realm commands the highest respect."
Eddard ignored the attempt at smoothing things over. His gray-blue eyes met Mace Tyrell's squarely. He had no time for courtesies—he needed to probe, to know where the Tyrells stood in Renly's designs.
"Supporting His Grace," Eddard said evenly, "is of course the sacred oath of every vassal. Yet, Lord Mace, there are times when the manner of that 'support' must be handled with particular care."
Lord Mace's brow furrowed deeply, the flesh on his face twitching with unease.
What did Eddard Stark mean by that?
Did he know something?
Or was this Northern wolf, freshly seated as Hand of the King, already seeking to make an example of House Tyrell?
The more Mace thought on it, the more convinced he became of the latter.
A hot wave of anger surged within him—born of pride, and the sting of perceived threat.
Lord Mace's face turned crimson, his voice rising with all the arrogance of a great lord of the Reach.
"My Lord Hand, what do you mean by that? Was House Tyrell's loyalty to the Iron Throne during the Battle of Bloodstone Isle not proof enough? Or do you, the newly appointed Hand of the King, intend to teach the Reach how to serve our King properly?!"
The gathered Tyrell bannermen and attendants went pale at his outburst.
Ser Garlan stepped forward quickly. "Father! The Lord Hand meant no such thing—"
Eddard regarded Mace Tyrell's furious, defensive expression, his words brimming with hostility and misplaced pride. A cold heaviness settled over him, and his suspicions hardened into certainty.
Such an overreaction could only mean one thing: guilt.
Mace Tyrell knew of Renly's plans—perhaps he was even among their architects. Otherwise, why would a simple warning about being "cautious in support" provoke such an outburst? It was as good as an admission.
A deep weariness and disappointment filled Eddard's chest.
Before him stood a Great Lord obsessed only with his family's advancement and his daughter's rise, blind to the storm gathering over the realm—or worse, choosing to play a part in it.
Stannis's warning had not been unfounded.
Renly and the Tyrells had already bound their interests together.
Eddard no longer bothered to explain or press further.
His eyes grew cold. Ignoring Mace's indignant shouting, he met his gaze squarely and spoke, his voice low but cutting.
"Lord Mace, loyalty is not proven through pretty words but by understanding truth. Any act that threatens the order of the realm will bring ruin upon the Seven Kingdoms—and it will demand its price. Take care that you do not pay it."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode away, not sparing a glance for Mace's darkening face or Garlan's shocked expression.
Lord Mace trembled with rage, pointing at Eddard's retreating back as he growled to his son and those nearby, "Who does he think he is?! Does he imagine that being Hand of the King gives him the right to do as he pleases? He's jealous of us Tyrells, that's what this is!"
The blustering lord had completely misread Eddard's warning, mistaking it for envy.
Garlan looked from his father's flushed, furious face to the spot where Eddard Stark had vanished into the crowd, his youthful features clouded with unease.
He knew his father had overreacted—and that the Hand's words carried a meaning far deeper than his father grasped.
Lord Mace was widely known to lack political subtlety, desperate to prove himself yet blind to how easily he could be manipulated.
Garlan's grandmother had sent him to King's Landing for this very reason—to keep watch over his father, to ensure he wasn't made a fool of.
But now, as Garlan watched his father puff with self-importance, he feared he was already too late.
Eddard walked along the edge of the tournament grounds, the roar of the crowd washing over him in waves. The clash of lances and hooves thundered like distant storm clouds—but his heart was heavy.
Littlefinger's loyalties were uncertain, yet he already knew too much through Catelyn. Renly's ambitions were sprouting like weeds. Mace Tyrell's pride and greed, Cersei and the Lannisters' unchecked arrogance—
King's Landing was a spider's web, vast and glistening, and he, a direwolf from the North, was caught deep within it. Around him, every thread quivered with danger, spun by enemies whose fangs dripped with venom.
Stannis was far away on Dragonstone, leaving him nearly alone in this struggle.
And the only lead pointing toward Renly now lay shrouded in confusion—made even more perilous by Mace Tyrell's foolish anger.
What was he to do?
Eddard's face was shadowed with sorrow and helplessness.
...
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