Winterfell, The North
Aryan was in his solar, waiting. Jaqen had sent word that he had something important. That usually meant someone had died, or someone was about to.
A knock came at the door.
"Enter," Aryan said.
Jaqen slipped inside, silent as ever.
"What happened?" Aryan asked.
"Jon Arryn was preparing to tell King Robert the truth," Jaqen said. "That Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen are not his children. He planned to resign the next day after that."
Aryan's face didn't change. "But he didn't make it that far."
Jaqen shook his head. "He died first. A man believes that 'Tears of Lys' was used."
"Who did it?" Aryan asked.
"A man believes it was Lysa Arryn. Ordered by Petyr Baelish. One of the woman monitoring Baelish, overheard him telling her to send your Aunt Catelyn a letter—blaming the Lannisters."
Aryan leaned back in his chair "He wants to turn the Starks against the Lannisters."
He was quiet for a few heartbeats
Aryan ordered "When Robert leaves Kingslanding for Moat Cailin… tell Kinvara to begin the ritual without any delay. I will tell mother and Arianne after few days."
Jaqen nodded, then left without another word.
_____________________________________________________________________
Kingslanding, The Crownlands
The bells tolled again, echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Reminding all of Kingslanding that one of the realm's great lords had passed. For any other man—even a great lord—it would have been excessive. But Jon Arryn had once been Hand of the King, foster father to the king himself, and so the mourning was loud, public, and drawn out.
The septas moved in solemn rhythm through the throne room, their pale robes swaying softly as they lit more incense and adjusted the elaborate candles surrounding the body. A dozen flames flickered around Jon Arryn's corpse. The scented smoke was masking the first sour hints of decay. Two figures stood there watching this all. A man and a woman—twins. Both had golden hair and green eyes that held little love for the dead man laid out below.
Jaime Lannister leaned with folded arms and lazy expression "As your brother," he said with a half-smile, "I feel it's my duty to inform you that you're beginning to worry too much. It's starting to show in your face."
Cersei didn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed on Jon Arryn's body "And you never worry about anything," she said flatly. "When we were seven, you used to leap from the cliffs at Casterly Rock straight into the sea without blinking."
"There was nothing to be afraid of," Jaime replied "Until you told Father. 'Lannisters do not act like fools,'" he said in a passable immitation of Tywin, "Though to be fair, I think he always considered me an exception."
Cersei turned her head slightly, giving him a sidelong glance. Her voice dropped lower. "What if Jon Arryn told someone?"
Jaime's smile thinned, but only slightly. "Who would he tell? He's dead."
"My husband," she said sharply.
"If he had," Jaime said, "our heads would already be on spikes above the gates. Whatever Jon Arryn suspected, it died with him." He looked back down at the corpse and shrugged. "Besides, Robert will pick a new Hand soon. Someone to nod along while he drinks himself to death and chases anything in skirts. You worry too much."
Cersie said "You worry too little."
Jamie said "I prefer not to waste energy on ghosts. Dead men don't talk."
Cersei folded her arms, hugging herself. Her voice was quieter. "He was going to take Robert to Moat Cailin. To see Eddard Cailstark."
Jaime lifted an eyebrow. "So?"
"So what if he meant to tell him there?" Cersei's voice wavered, just for a moment. "Eddard Cailstark is stubborn and honorable and entirely too loyal. If Jon Arryn whispered even a breath of a suspicion in his ear…"
Jaime waved a hand. "Then the honorable wolf would have come south snarling, and we would still be here. Robert sees what he wants to see. He sees a beautiful queen. A family. He doesn't want the truth. He never did."
She didn't look reassured.
"I should have listened more closely," she whispered. "I knew Jon Arryn was digging. Asking after the bastards, asking questions about lineage and—"
"And now he's dead," Jaime interrupted. "And the questions died with him. Trust me. No one wants to untangle those knots. They all want peace, or the illusion of it. Except maybe Littlefinger, and he doesn't do anything that doesn't serve himself."
Silence stretched between them again. Then, out of nowhere, Cersei said, "You should be the Hand of the King."
That made Jaime recoil slightly, like she had just suggested he become a septon. "Seven hells, no. That's a sentence I could do without."
Cersie said "You have the name. The presence."
"The Hand doesn't get to wield the sword," Jaime said. "He just gets buried by the crown's weight. Their days are too long, their sleep too short. And they all end up like him." He gestured at the body below.
Cersei's face twisted, halfway between agreement and bitterness. She said nothing more.
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Braavos
For so long, Melisandre had seen nothing but war in the flames—war, snow, darkness, and death. Night after night, the fires whispered of ruin. The faces of men and women twisted in agony, frozen landscapes drenched in red, the screams of the dying carried by cold winds. She had begged R'hllor for more. She had pleaded to be shown Azor Ahai, the prince that was promised, the warrior of fire and light. But always, the flames gave her only snow, shadows, and silence.
She wondered then if she was unworthy. If she was not chosen. If all her sacrifices had meant nothing. But still, she prayed. Still, she watched.
And then—one night—the vision changed.
She saw him.
She saw Azor Ahai.
She saw the dawn break behind him, chasing away the long night. She saw spring rising from the ashes of a frozen world. And she knew. She knew. It was him.
She had thought that was the happiest moment of her long life.
But it wasn't.
The happiest moment was not when she saw him in the flames, but when she met him, when he spoke to her not as a servant, but as someone he allowed to follow. When he told her she could walk behind him in shadow and light, that she had a place in what was to come.
She may not be at his side, but she was in contact with him. They spoke often through the mirror he gave her. She saw him and heard his voice as clearly as if he was in front of her. It soothed her, guided her.
And she had seen, what will come before the war to end all wars.
She had seen it in the flames—before the war against the great others, one more war must be fought. A war of men, of blood, of vengeance. A war where Azor Ahai would settle old debts and reclaim what was owed.
That war was near.
And she would do as he had asked her. As he would ask her. As she was destined to do.
They had just spoken.
And now, she would begin the task he gave her.
He had given her free reign.
Her target was Stannis Baratheon, and she would lead him to his ruins.
After that she would join Azor Ahai, and be by his side.
Azor Ahai had given her a purpose.
And she would burn the path clear.
___________________________________________________________________
Winterfell, The North
The faint sound of the wind through the branches, the trickling of the stream nearby—these were the only sounds in the godswood.
Aryan stood beneath the heart tree, its pale bark streaked with the deep red of old sap, its carved face watching. His mother sat on the stone bench beneath its limbs, Arianne was sitting beside her.
The place was warded. No whispers would escape without his permission.
"I've received word from Kingslanding," Aryan said at last.
Both women looked to him at once.
"Jon Arryn was preparing to tell Robert the truth," Aryan continued. "That Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen are not his children. He planned to resign as Hand the next day."
Ashara and Arianne raised an eyebrow, asking him to continue.
"But before he could act, he died," Aryan said. "My people suspect 'Tears of Lys' was used."
"Who did it?" Arianne asked, her tone was quiet.
Aryan turned toward her. "Lysa Arryn. On the urging of Petyr Baelish. One of my agents monitoring Baelish overheard him give the instructions. He told her to also flee the city and send a letter to Aunt Catelyn, placing the blame on the Lannisters. I have ordered my people in Moat Cailin to intercept that letter, before it reaches the hands of Maester Luwin"
Ashara said. "And now Robert will name your Uncle Ned as the new Hand."
Aryan looked away, toward the heart tree. "He's coming to Moat Cailin."
A silence passed between them.
Then Arianne asked, "You've given Kinvara the order to begin the ritual?"
Aryan met her gaze. "I have."
She nodded.
"Should I ride with you to Moat Cailin?" Arianne asked.
"Yes," Aryan said. "You'll come with me. I want you there."
Ashara spoke at last gently "And others?"
"Mellario, Tyene and Nymeria will stay here with you. Sansa and Arya will come to Moat Cailin with me, to see Uncle Ned, but I will send them back before Robert arrives." Aryan said. "I don't want them near Cersie Lannister. She is a vile excuse of a woman."
She looked back up at her son.
"So, it begins," she said quietly and had a small smile. "The dynasty will fall, and finally the legacy will crumble."
Aryan said "That's the plan."
_____________________________________________________________________
The Neck, The North
The royal procession was a long one, slowed to a crawl by the Queen's wheelhouse—an absurdly large and elaborately carved monstrosity. They might have reached Moat Cailin long ago if the damn thing hadn't kept snapping axles or sinking into the soft earth.
Jaime Lannister chuckled as they rode side by side. "How are things in Lannisport, Lord Mayor?"
Tyrion's smile faded. "After I rebuilt it to something resembling its former glory, I started indulging in a few worldly comforts. The security was not tight there and then Lorch died in that fire, and father never forgot that. Apparently, being a 'drunken whoremonger' disqualified me from leadership, so he handed the city to Daven."
Jaime sighed. He knew how much that post had meant to Tyrion. For once, his brother had been doing something useful. "You deserved better."
"That's very touching, Jaime," Tyrion muttered. "I'll embroider it on a pillow."
Jaime smirked. "So why come North? You have already visited once."
"Last time I came, the Lord of Winterfell was not there. I wanted to meet him." Tyrion said simply. "Aryan Stark is not like the rest"
Jaime said "I'm eager to see this famed Moat Cailin for myself. Do you think the honorable Eddard Cailstark will accept the king's offer?"
Tyrion shrugged. "Any other man would've. But not here. In the North, only Aryan Stark, his wife, and mother cares about the politics of the realm. The other northerner don't care about the realm beyond the Neck. And after what happened the last time Eddard Cailstark visited the capital? I doubt he'll ever go south again."
"What about any alliance?" Jaime asked.
"That path's closed too," Tyrion said. "Every marriageable Cailstark and Seastark is already betrothed. Aryan has sealed them up tighter than the Wall. No alliances left to forge there."
The wind howled and the vast marshes finally gave way to firmer ground. In the distance, a massive wall and twenty towers of Moat Cailin loomed like the bones of giants half buried in the bog.
Tyrion tugged at his reins and squinted. "There it is."
Jaime slowed, jaw slack as he took in the sight. "Is that… Moat Cailin?"
"Yes," Tyrion said.
"Only Harrenhal and Winterfell are larger," Tyrion continued. "And Harrenhal is cursed and ruined. This place... this place was built to stop the world from entering the North through the neck."
Jaime stared a moment longer before nodding. "I can see why no one has ever taken it."
Tyrion glanced toward the distant towers. "That's the point."
Tyrion added, almost to himself, "Cersei should've asked Robert to wed Myrcella to Aryan. Instead, she spat on the idea."
"I tried," Jaime said quietly. "She wouldn't hear it."
"Myrcella would've been safer here," Tyrion said. "She would've been treated better than she ever was in King's Landing. You weren't at the Stark-Martell wedding. But father... father was furious at Cersei afterward. Now, our enemy has a very powerful ally, and we don't know what that ally wants."
Jaime said nothing. There wasn't much to say.
___________________________________________________________________
Moat Cailin, The North
Soon, the royal party reached the gates of Moat Cailin.
Aryan stood in the courtyard, next to him stood Arianne. Beside them stood Aunt Catelyn, and further down the line, his cousins—Robb, Bran, and Rickon—arranged by age.
The first to ride in was a knight of the Kingsguard. Following him came Prince Joffrey Baratheon. He was draped in fine red silk and black velvet, trimmed with fur. His eyes swept across the courtyard, full of disdain, not even offering the courtesy of curiosity. He looked upon Moat Cailin and the Northerners within it, as beneath him.
And this boy was raised to rule? Aryan thought It's good for everyone that he will be gone soon.
Behind the prince rode an enormous man on a warhorse. His helm was shaped like a snarling dog's head. This is the Hound. Brother to the Mountain. Sworn shield to the Prince.
Next came the Queen's wheelhouse—a ridiculous thing, absurdly elaborate and far too fragile-looking for damaged southern roads. Gilded wood and painted lions, glass windows and trailing silks. It groaned on its wheels.
Then came the rest of the Kingsguard, followed finally by the King himself.
For those who had only heard the legends, the sight of Robert Baratheon was jarring. The famed Demon of the Trident was now a mountain of a man, broad and heavy, with an enormous black beard that swallowed his neck and most of his chin. His clothes strained at the belly.
Aryan thought How far had he fallen?
As expected, everyone knelt as the King approached. Aryan was the last to lower himself. Through careful glances, he caught the King's impatience as he waited for the step to be brought forward. He grunted as he climbed down.
Robert walked over to stand in front of him, and looked on him expectantly and told him to rise, which he did, and said with a respectful nod "Welcome to Moat Cailin, Your Grace."
Robert looked him over and asked "Where is your uncle?"
Aryan replied "Unfortunately, Uncle Ned is unwell. He's resting, Your Grace."
Robert frowned and looked concerned. "Take me to him, Aryan."
"Come with me, Your Grace," Aryan replied, turning to lead the King toward Uncle Ned's room.
_____________________________________________________________________
It fell to Arianne to handle the rest.
Cersei Lannister approached her, her beauty did little to mask the venom that clung to her like perfume. The way her lips curled into a smile that felt more like a baring of teeth. She had seen Aryan at his worst. So now, she is not impressed easily.
Arianne dipped into a shallow curtsy, but her chin high, her eyes never leaving the queen's. "Your Grace," she said in a smooth voice. She would not bend to a lioness.
For a moment, Cersei looked with hate, but then it vanished behind the veil of courtly composure. Still, Arianne had seen it. She smiled.
"I am certain you would appreciate a warm bed and a proper room after your long journey," Arianne said "Permit me to show you and your children to their chambers."
Cersei's smile twisted "Yes. Now."
Arianne's smile widened just slightly. She turned and lead the Cersei, her twin brother Jamie, and their children into the keep. She didn't even make any effort at small talk, as Cersei was in a foul mood now. Jaime walked silently at his sister's side.
Arianne was enjoying herself. Every step was a pinprick beneath the lioness's paw.
She took note of the children as they entered the halls of Moat Cailin. Tommen looked around with wide, curious eyes, wonder plain on his face. He seemed eager to explore—until he caught a glare from his elder brother.
Joffrey's gaze was cruel, the kind of look a spoiled boy gives ants before he crushes them. Tommen shrank back immediately, retreating to Myrcella's side. The princess, reached for his hand and pulled him close with a protective arm.
Arianne's eyes lingered on Joffrey. There was satisfaction on his face, pride in the way he cowed his younger brother. But Myrcella's defiance annoyed him. She stood firm, glaring back at him without fear.
How often does this happen? Arianne wondered.
And then there was Cersei—who had seen it all. She had watched her eldest son glare down his brother, watched her daughter stand between them—and had said nothing. Only a pleased smile for her golden boy, and disregard for the others.
The Queen bitch, indeed. Enjoy your golden child, as long as you all are. Arianne kept her thoughts behind a smile and continued to lead them through the keep.
______________________________________________________________________
"What happened to Ned? And when?" Robert asked, his voice quieter than usual, all of a sudden filled with worry.
"In the beginning, no one noticed," Aryan said calmly. They were walking through the halls of Moat Cailin "It was very slow. At first, he would just feel tired more often. Then the fatigue began to linger. Days passed, and it grew worse."
Robert frowned, his brows coming together as he looked ahead, but Aryan continued.
"Maester Luwin could do nothing," Aryan said. "So, I sent Qyburn."
"Qyburn?" Robert asked, pausing.
"A healer from the South. He is unconventional, but brilliant," Aryan replied with a glance at the king. "He has tended to Uncle Ned since. There is no danger now. The worst has passed. But it will be a long recovery. Qyburn has forbidden him from doing anything strenuous for months. He needs rest. With time, he will make a full recovery."
Robert was silent for a moment. The thought of Ned—his closest friend, the man who had stood beside him through worst—laid low by nothing more than fatigue seemed somehow more cruel than a wound. He exhaled slowly.
"Why didn't anyone tell me?" he muttered.
"Everyone was filled with worry. It just slipped our minds. I am sorry, your grace." Aryan replied, "And then we received a raven that you are coming"
That earned a sharp look from Robert.
"How bad was it?" the King asked.
"There were nights he couldn't get out of bed," Aryan admitted, his voice quieter now. "He tried, of course. But once Qyburn explained the true nature of it, I insisted on full rest. And he agreed."
Robert gave a gruff nod. "Good. You did right."
They stopped before a heavy oaken door. Guards were standing outside. Robert looked at them, then at Aryan.
"Can I see him?"
Aryan nodded and knocked once. The door opened slowly, revealing the dim chamber where Eddard Cailstark lay resting. A fire crackled gently in the hearth. He was awake, sitting propped against furs, his looked exhausted.
When Robert stepped inside, Ned gave a slow, tired smile.
As Robert entered, Ned smiled weakly. "I heard the King was coming. Didn't think you would actually climb off that throne of yours."
Robert let out a bark of laughter, half relieved. "You stubborn wolf. You are in this state, but you still sound like you're ready to lecture me."
"And if I had the strength, I would," Ned said.
Robert moved to the bedside and gripped his old friend's shoulder. "Rest. I will come later and we'll talk. Like we used to."
Robert turned to Aryan. "You've done well for him."
Aryan inclined his head. "He is my family, Your Grace. And nothing I do will ever match what he has done for me."
_____________________________________________________________________
Robert had taken the chair nearest the hearth, stretching his legs comfortably, while Aryan stood near window of his uncle's solar, gazing out at the sky above Moat Cailin.
"You've built this place up well," Robert said at last "Not many could make a ruin like Moat Cailin livable. Let alone… this." He gestured his surrounding.
Aryan turned, a smile on his lips. "Stone remembers. You only have to know how to listen to it."
Robert let out a chuckle. "You sound like your uncle."
"That's not a bad thing."
"No, it's not," Robert agreed, his voice softening. "I didn't just come to see Ned, Aryan. You know that."
"I know."
"I came to ask him to be my Hand."
Aryan nodded slowly.
Robert took a sip of whiskey and then set the cup down with a sigh. "I've had enough of court sycophants. Vultures circling the crown. Jon was the only man who spoke truth to me—and now he's gone. Ned… Ned is the only one left."
Aryan held his gaze. "He would've said yes."
"Aye," Robert muttered, slouching back in the chair. "That's what makes it worse."
"I'm sorry he can't."
Robert sighed and ran a hand down his face. "When did it all get so bloody complicated? I wanted peace. After the war… after the throne… I thought there would be quiet. But the throne, it's not a chair. It's a damn set of manacles."
"All the thrones are."
Robert looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. "You don't sound surprised."
"I'm not," Aryan said, stepping toward the fire "You won the war, but Jon Arryn kept the peace. He was your Hand. Without him, you need someone who you can trust, and someone you'll listen to."
Robert barked a bitter laugh. "And now I can't even get the one man I trust to rise from bed."
Aryan said at last. "Tywin Lannister was one of the most competent Hand. But his loyalty..."
Robert's expression soured. "Don't I know it."
Robert stared into the flames. "I don't want this life for Ned. But I need someone. Someone I can trust."
Aryan said "There must be some Lord who is loyal only to you."
Robert thought and rubbed his jaw "There are in the Stormlands. I will ask one of them until Ned is ready."
Robert asked "Where the others? Why are they not here?"
Aryan responded "Sansa and Arya were here. But the girls were spending all their time in Uncle Ned's chamber. He wasn't getting any proper rest, he kept trying to speak with them. So, I sent them back to Winterfell. Thankfully, they understood. Otherwise, I'm sure they would've never forgiven me. Uncle Benjen and his family are on their way here."
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Joffrey was fully prepared to be bored stiff the moment they crossed into the North. Why his father insisted on coming all the way up here was beyond him, when he could've simply summoned Eddard Cailstark to King's Landing like a proper king. Instead, they were dragged them all here. The entire journey, his mother had gone on and on about how pathetic and backwards the North was. How its people prayed to trees and lived like animals. No manners, no refinement, no respect. Poor and stupid, she'd said, her voice full of disdain. And Joffrey, had believed every word. His mother was always right.
But as he came here, doubt began to gnaw at that belief. The fortress wasn't crumbling and desolate like he'd imagined. The towers stood tall, and the stonework looked new. The roads were well paved, the guards were well armed and better disciplined than he had seen in the capital. Even the smallfolk they passed looked much cleaner than he had seen in Kingslanding. It wasn't the savage wilderness he'd been warned about.
Joffrey said nothing, of course. But he glanced around more than once, his scowl deepening each time, everything challenged what he had been told.
______________________________________________________________________
Robb had taken it upon himself to escort the two youngest royals through the keep, with their uncle Jaime. He showed them the Godswood first, then the glass gardens, and all the hidden marvels tucked away in Moat Cailin.
Myrcella and Tommen were wide eyed with wonder as they stepped into the enclosed forest. The Godswood was quiet and peaceful. But the true moment of awe came when a black shape moved between the trees.
The direwolf padded silently across the soft ground, its golden eyes locking onto theirs. The beast was enormous, larger than any hound Jaime had ever seen. His instincts kicked in immediately and his hand moved to the hilt of his sword, even as the wolf only gave them a cursory glance.
Robb turned to the children and said with pride, "That's cousin Aryan's wolf, Remus. He's grown a lot since he brought him south of the wall. He never leaves Aryan's side when it matters."
Jaime felt envy. As a boy, he had dreamed of having a lion as a companion. A great golden beast that would follow him into battles, a creature that would be his friend. Childhood dreams. But seeing Aryan's direwolf, it stirred those dreams.
Eventually, they left the Godswood, the children were chattering excitedly about the wolf. Robb promised more before the night was done.
And Jaime, found himself more unsettled by a boy and his wolf than he cared to admit.
_______________________________________________________________________
That night at the feast, Cersei Lannister was seething beneath her smile.
She had been dragged away from the luxuries of the Red Keep, to halfway across the realm in the North. All because her drunken fool of a husband had insisted on naming Eddard Cailstark as his new Hand. Not her father, Tywin, who had ruled the Seven Kingdoms in all but name for decades. No, instead it was a Northern savage. A man bedridden, unable even to attend the feast held in his honor.
It was disgraceful.
Robert, of course, had vanished the moment they arrived with the Bloody Wolf, away with the sick man rather than taking his seat beside her. She was left to suffer this alone, surrounded by lords and howling Northern songs, as if she were some minor Westerlands noble, not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Her mood only darkened as her two youngest children, Myrcella and Tommen, chattered excitedly between bites. They spoke of the Godswood and the direwolf they had seen, of the glass gardens and how beautiful everything was. She had half expected them to be frightened of the North. But instead they were enchanted.
Even Joffrey, who had been looking down at them, had grown quiet since they arrived. She caught him studying the great hall now. There was a furrow in his brow she didn't like.
The boy was starting to doubt her. Doubt her.
Yes, the North had changed. It has prospered, and is wealthy. More wealthy than she had expected. Far too much.
Still, they were not royalty like her.
And then there was the Dornish girl.
Arianne Stark, seated just next to her, draped in fine clothes dyed in the deep red of Dornish wine. Cersei had caught the look in her eyes when she arrived. She was not respectful.
Cersei loathed her immediately. She had always despised the Martells. And now one had clawed her way into the North, married to the Bloody Wolf, who seemed to hold more sway over this realm than Robert ever has.
______________________________________________________________________
(Next Day)
Jaime leaned back in his seat "Do you think the Aryan Starks will go against us?"
Tyrion didn't answer right away. "I don't know. No one does. He hides more than he shows. And behind those violet eyes... there's only danger."
Cersei scoffed. "He'll do his duty when Joffrey is king."
Tyrion gave her a sharp look. "Cersei, for once, try speaking after you think. Does none of this unsettle you? You saw Starkhaven with your own eyes. You're sitting in Moat Cailin now. This was a ruin, and look at it now, and it's still nothing compared to Winterfell."
She said nothing, lips pressed thin.
Tyrion continued with low voice. "There has to be a reason why he married Arianne Martell. You cost us a powerful ally not once, but twice."
Jaime sighed. "So what should we do?"
"Nothing," Tyrion said flatly. "Watch. Wait. And please—for the love of the gods—don't provoke him or his wife, Cersei. Don't let your pride lead us to ruin. They may smile, but never trust their smile. The Vale and the North had good relations, and see what Aryan did. We are nothing to him."
_____________________________________________________________________
A sennight later, the royal party began their journey back to the capital.