He found Littlefinger in the brothel’s
common room, chatting amiably with a tall, elegant woman who wore a
feathered gown over skin as black as ink. By the hearth, Heward and
a buxom wench were playing at forfeits. From the look of it,
he’d lost his belt, his cloak, his mail shirt, and his right
boot so far, while the girl had been forced to unbutton her shift
to the waist. Jory Cassel stood beside a rain-streaked window with
a wry smile on his face, watching Heward turn over tiles and
enjoying the view.
Ned paused at the foot of the stair and pulled on his gloves.
“It’s time we took our leave. My business here is
done.”
Heward lurched to his feet, hurriedly gathering up his things.
“As you will, my lord,” Jory said. “I’ll
help Wyl bring round the horses.” He strode to the door.
Littlefinger took his time saying his farewells. He kissed the
black woman’s hand, whispered some joke that made her laugh
aloud, and sauntered over to Ned. “Your business,” he
said lightly, “or Robert’s? They say the Hand dreams
the king’s dreams, speaks with the king’s voice, and
rules with the king’s sword. Does that also mean you fuck
with the king’s—”
“Lord Baelish,” Ned interrupted, “you presume
too much. I am not ungrateful for your help. It might have taken us
years to find this brothel without you. That does not mean I intend
to endure your mockery. And I am no longer the King’s
Hand.”
“The direwolf must be a prickly beast,” said
Littlefinger with a sharp twist of his mouth.
A warm rain was pelting down from a starless black sky as they
walked to the stables. Ned drew up the hood of his cloak. Jory
brought out his horse. Young Wyl came right behind him, leading
Littlefinger’s mare with one hand while the other fumbled
with his belt and the lacings of his trousers. A barefoot whore
leaned out of the stable door, giggling at him.
“Will we be going back to the castle now, my lord?”
Jory asked. Ned nodded and swung into the saddle. Littlefinger
mounted up beside him. Jory and the others followed.
“Chataya runs a choice establishment,” Littlefinger
said as they rode. “I’ve half a mind to buy it.
Brothels are a much sounder investment than ships, I’ve
found. Whores seldom sink, and when they are boarded by pirates,
why, the pirates pay good coin like everyone else.” Lord
Petyr chuckled at his own wit.
Ned let him prattle on. After a time, he quieted and they rode
in silence. The streets of King’s Landing were dark and
deserted. The rain had driven everyone under their roofs. It beat
down on Ned’s head, warm as blood and relentless as old
guilts. Fat drops of water ran down his face.
“Robert will never keep to one bed,” Lyanna had told
him at Winterfell, on the night long ago when their father had
promised her hand to the young Lord of Storm’s End. “I
hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale.” Ned had
held the babe in his arms; he could scarcely deny her, nor would he
lie to his sister, but he had assured her that what Robert did
before their betrothal was of no matter, that he was a good man and
true who would love her with all his heart. Lyanna had only smiled.
“Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a
man’s nature.”
The girl had been so young Ned had not dared to ask her age. No
doubt she’d been a virgin; the better brothels could always
find a virgin, if the purse was fat enough. She had light red hair
and a powdering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and when
she slipped free a breast to give her nipple to the babe, he saw
that her bosom was freckled as well. “I named her
Barra,” she said as the child nursed. “She looks so
like him, does she not, milord? She has his nose, and his hair . . . ”
“She does.” Eddard Stark had touched the
baby’s fine, dark hair. It flowed through his fingers like
black silk. Robert’s firstborn had had the same fine hair, he
seemed to recall.
“Tell him that when you see him, milord, as it . . . as it
please you. Tell him how beautiful she is.”
“I will,” Ned had promised her. That was his curse.
Robert would swear undying love and forget them before evenfall,
but Ned Stark kept his vows. He thought of the promises he’d
made Lyanna as she lay dying, and the price he’d paid to keep
them.
“And tell him I’ve not been with no one else. I
swear it, milord, by the old gods and new. Chataya said I could
have half a year, for the baby, and for hoping he’d come
back. So you’ll tell him I’m waiting, won’t you?
I don’t want no jewels or nothing, just him. He was always
good to me, truly.” Good to you, Ned thought hollowly. “I will tell him,
child, and I promise you, Barra shall not go wanting.”
She had smiled then, a smile so tremulous and sweet that it cut
the heart out of him. Riding through the rainy night, Ned saw Jon
Snow’s face in front of him, so like a younger version of his
own. If the gods frowned so on bastards, he thought dully, why did
they fill men with such lusts? “Lord Baelish, what do you
know of Robert’s bastards?”
“Well, he has more than you, for a start.”
“How many?”
Littlefinger shrugged. Rivulets of moisture twisted down the
back of his cloak. “Does it matter? If you bed enough women,
some will give you presents, and His Grace has never been shy on
that count. I know he’s acknowledged that boy at
Storm’s End, the one he fathered the night Lord Stannis wed.
He could hardly do otherwise. The mother was a Florent, niece to
the Lady Selyse, one of her bedmaids. Renly says that Robert
carried the girl upstairs during the feast, and broke in the
wedding bed while Stannis and his bride were still dancing. Lord
Stannis seemed to think that was a blot on the honor of his
wife’s House, so when the boy was born, he shipped him off to
Renly.” He gave Ned a sideways glance. “I’ve also
heard whispers that Robert got a pair of twins on a serving wench
at Casterly Rock, three years ago when he went west for Lord
Tywin’s tourney. Cersei had the babes killed, and sold the
mother to a passing slaver. Too much an affront to Lannister pride,
that close to home.”
Ned Stark grimaced. Ugly tales like that were told of every
great lord in the realm. He could believe it of Cersei Lannister
readily enough . . . but would the king stand by and let it happen?
The Robert he had known would not have, but the Robert he had known
had never been so practiced at shutting his eyes to things he did
not wish to see. “Why would Jon Arryn take a sudden interest
in the king’s baseborn children?”
The short man gave a sodden shrug. “He was the
King’s Hand. Doubtless Robert asked him to see that they were
provided for.”
Ned was soaked through to the bone, and his soul had grown cold.
“It had to be more than that, or why kill him?”
Littlefinger shook the rain from his hair and laughed.
“Now I see. Lord Arryn learned that His Grace had filled the
bellies of some whores and fishwives, and for that he had to be
silenced. Small wonder. Allow a man like that to live, and next
he’s like to blurt out that the sun rises in the
east.”
There was no answer Ned Stark could give to that but a frown.
For the first time in years, he found himself remembering Rhaegar
Targaryen. He wondered if Rhaegar had frequented brothels; somehow
he thought not.
The rain was falling harder now, stinging the eyes and drumming
against the ground. Rivers of black water were running down the
hill when Jory called out, “My lord,” his voice hoarse
with alarm. And in an instant, the street was full of soldiers.
Ned glimpsed ringmail over leather, gauntlets and greaves, steel
helms with golden lions on the crests. Their cloaks clung to their
backs, sodden with rain. He had no time to count, but there were
ten at least, a line of them, on foot, blocking the street, with
longswords and iron-tipped spears. “Behind!” he heard
Wyl cry, and when he turned his horse, there were more in back of
them, cutting off their retreat. Jory’s sword came singing
from its scabbard. “Make way or die!”
“The wolves are howling,” their leader said. Ned
could see rain running down his face. “Such a small pack,
though.”
Littlefinger walked his horse forward, step by careful step.
“What is the meaning of this? This is the Hand of the
King.”
“He was the Hand of the King.” The mud muffled the
hooves of the blood bay stallion. The line parted before him. On a
golden breastplate, the lion of Lannister roared its defiance.
“Now, if truth be told, I’m not sure what he
is.”
“Lannister, this is madness,” Littlefinger said.
“Let us pass. We are expected back at the castle. What do you
think you’re doing?”
“He knows what he’s doing,” Ned said
calmly.
Jaime Lannister smiled. “Quite true. I’m looking for
my brother. You remember my brother, don’t you, Lord Stark?
He was with us at Winterfell. Fair-haired, mismatched eyes, sharp
of tongue. A short man.”
“I remember him well,” Ned replied.
“It would seem he has met some trouble on the road. My
lord father is quite vexed. You would not perchance have any notion
of who might have wished my brother ill, would you?”
“Your brother has been taken at my command, to answer for
his crimes,” Ned Stark said.
Littlefinger groaned in dismay. “My lords—”
Ser Jaime ripped his longsword from its sheath and urged his
stallion forward. “Show me your steel, Lord Eddard.
I’ll butcher you like Aerys if I must, but I’d sooner
you died with a blade in your hand.” He gave Littlefinger a
cool, contemptuous glance. “Lord Baelish, I’d leave
here in some haste if I did not care to get bloodstains on my
costly clothing.”
Littlefinger did not need to be urged. “I will bring the
City Watch,” he promised Ned. The Lannister line parted to
let him through, and closed behind him. Littlefinger put his heels
to his mare and vanished around a corner.
Ned’s men had drawn their swords, but they were three
against twenty. Eyes watched from nearby windows and doors, but no
one was about to intervene. His party was mounted, the Lannisters
on foot save for Jaime himself. A charge might win them free, but
it seemed to Eddard Stark that they had a surer, safer tactic.
“Kill me,” he warned the Kingslayer, “and Catelyn
will most certainly slay Tyrion.”
Jaime Lannister poked at Ned’s chest with the gilded sword
that had sipped the blood of the last of the Dragonkings.
“Would she? The noble Catelyn Tully of Riverrun murder a
hostage? I think . . . not.” He sighed. “But I am not
willing to chance my brother’s life on a woman’s
honor.” Jaime slid the golden sword into its sheath.
“So I suppose I’ll let you run back to Robert to tell
him how I frightened you. I wonder if he’ll care.”
Jaime pushed his wet hair back with his fingers and wheeled his
horse around. When he was beyond the line of swordsmen, he glanced
back at his captain. “Tregar, see that no harm comes to Lord
Stark.”
“As you say, m’lord.”
“Still . . . we wouldn’t want him to leave here
entirely unchastened, so”—through the night and the rain, he
glimpsed the white of Jaime’s smile—“kill his
men.”
“No!” Ned Stark screamed, clawing for his sword.
Jaime was already cantering off down the street as he heard Wyl
shout. Men closed from both sides. Ned rode one down, cutting at
phantoms in red cloaks who gave way before him. Jory Cassel put his
heels into his mount and charged. A steel-shod hoof caught a
Lannister guardsman in the face with a sickening crunch. A second
man reeled away and for an instant Jory was free. Wyl cursed as they pulled him off his dying
horse, swords slashing in the rain. Ned galloped to him, bringing
his longsword down on Tregar’s helm. The jolt of impact made
him grit his teeth. Tregar stumbled to his knees, his lion crest
sheared in half, blood running down his face. Heward was hacking at
the hands that had seized his bridle when a spear caught him in the
belly. Suddenly Jory was back among them, a red rain flying from
his sword. “No!” Ned shouted. “Jory, away!”
Ned’s horse slipped under him and came crashing down in the
mud. There was a moment of blinding pain and the taste of blood in
his mouth.
He saw them cut the legs from Jory’s mount and drag him to
the earth, swords rising and failing as they closed in around him.
When Ned’s horse lurched back to its feet, he tried to rise,
only to fall again, choking on his scream. He could see the
splintered bone poking through his calf. It was the last thing he
saw for a time. The rain came down and down and down.
When he opened his eyes again, Lord Eddard Stark was alone with
his dead. His horse moved closer, caught the rank scent of blood,
and galloped away. Ned began to drag himself through the mud,
gritting his teeth at the agony in his leg. It seemed to take
years. Faces watched from candlelit windows, and people began to
emerge from alleys and doors, but no one moved to help.
Littlefinger and the City Watch found him there in the street,
cradling Jory Cassel’s body in his arms.
Somewhere the gold cloaks found a litter, but the trip back to
the castle was a blur of agony, and Ned lost consciousness more
than once. He remembered seeing the Red Keep looming ahead of him
in the first grey light of dawn. The rain had darkened the pale
pink stone of the massive walls to the color of blood.
Then Grand Maester Pycelle was looming over him, holding a cup,
whispering, “Drink, my lord. Here. The milk of the poppy, for
your pain.” He remembered swallowing, and Pycelle was telling
someone to heat the wine to boiling and fetch him clean silk, and
that was the last he knew.
He found Littlefinger in the brothel’s
common room, chatting amiably with a tall, elegant woman who wore a
feathered gown over skin as black as ink. By the hearth, Heward and
a buxom wench were playing at forfeits. From the look of it,
he’d lost his belt, his cloak, his mail shirt, and his right
boot so far, while the girl had been forced to unbutton her shift
to the waist. Jory Cassel stood beside a rain-streaked window with
a wry smile on his face, watching Heward turn over tiles and
enjoying the view.
Ned paused at the foot of the stair and pulled on his gloves.
“It’s time we took our leave. My business here is
done.”
Heward lurched to his feet, hurriedly gathering up his things.
“As you will, my lord,” Jory said. “I’ll
help Wyl bring round the horses.” He strode to the door.
Littlefinger took his time saying his farewells. He kissed the
black woman’s hand, whispered some joke that made her laugh
aloud, and sauntered over to Ned. “Your business,” he
said lightly, “or Robert’s? They say the Hand dreams
the king’s dreams, speaks with the king’s voice, and
rules with the king’s sword. Does that also mean you fuck
with the king’s—”
“Lord Baelish,” Ned interrupted, “you presume
too much. I am not ungrateful for your help. It might have taken us
years to find this brothel without you. That does not mean I intend
to endure your mockery. And I am no longer the King’s
Hand.”
“The direwolf must be a prickly beast,” said
Littlefinger with a sharp twist of his mouth.
A warm rain was pelting down from a starless black sky as they
walked to the stables. Ned drew up the hood of his cloak. Jory
brought out his horse. Young Wyl came right behind him, leading
Littlefinger’s mare with one hand while the other fumbled
with his belt and the lacings of his trousers. A barefoot whore
leaned out of the stable door, giggling at him.
“Will we be going back to the castle now, my lord?”
Jory asked. Ned nodded and swung into the saddle. Littlefinger
mounted up beside him. Jory and the others followed.
“Chataya runs a choice establishment,” Littlefinger
said as they rode. “I’ve half a mind to buy it.
Brothels are a much sounder investment than ships, I’ve
found. Whores seldom sink, and when they are boarded by pirates,
why, the pirates pay good coin like everyone else.” Lord
Petyr chuckled at his own wit.
Ned let him prattle on. After a time, he quieted and they rode
in silence. The streets of King’s Landing were dark and
deserted. The rain had driven everyone under their roofs. It beat
down on Ned’s head, warm as blood and relentless as old
guilts. Fat drops of water ran down his face.
“Robert will never keep to one bed,” Lyanna had told
him at Winterfell, on the night long ago when their father had
promised her hand to the young Lord of Storm’s End. “I
hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale.” Ned had
held the babe in his arms; he could scarcely deny her, nor would he
lie to his sister, but he had assured her that what Robert did
before their betrothal was of no matter, that he was a good man and
true who would love her with all his heart. Lyanna had only smiled.
“Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a
man’s nature.”
The girl had been so young Ned had not dared to ask her age. No
doubt she’d been a virgin; the better brothels could always
find a virgin, if the purse was fat enough. She had light red hair
and a powdering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and when
she slipped free a breast to give her nipple to the babe, he saw
that her bosom was freckled as well. “I named her
Barra,” she said as the child nursed. “She looks so
like him, does she not, milord? She has his nose, and his hair . . . ”
“She does.” Eddard Stark had touched the
baby’s fine, dark hair. It flowed through his fingers like
black silk. Robert’s firstborn had had the same fine hair, he
seemed to recall.
“Tell him that when you see him, milord, as it . . . as it
please you. Tell him how beautiful she is.”
“I will,” Ned had promised her. That was his curse.
Robert would swear undying love and forget them before evenfall,
but Ned Stark kept his vows. He thought of the promises he’d
made Lyanna as she lay dying, and the price he’d paid to keep
them.
“And tell him I’ve not been with no one else. I
swear it, milord, by the old gods and new. Chataya said I could
have half a year, for the baby, and for hoping he’d come
back. So you’ll tell him I’m waiting, won’t you?
I don’t want no jewels or nothing, just him. He was always
good to me, truly.” Good to you, Ned thought hollowly. “I will tell him,
child, and I promise you, Barra shall not go wanting.”
She had smiled then, a smile so tremulous and sweet that it cut
the heart out of him. Riding through the rainy night, Ned saw Jon
Snow’s face in front of him, so like a younger version of his
own. If the gods frowned so on bastards, he thought dully, why did
they fill men with such lusts? “Lord Baelish, what do you
know of Robert’s bastards?”
“Well, he has more than you, for a start.”
“How many?”
Littlefinger shrugged. Rivulets of moisture twisted down the
back of his cloak. “Does it matter? If you bed enough women,
some will give you presents, and His Grace has never been shy on
that count. I know he’s acknowledged that boy at
Storm’s End, the one he fathered the night Lord Stannis wed.
He could hardly do otherwise. The mother was a Florent, niece to
the Lady Selyse, one of her bedmaids. Renly says that Robert
carried the girl upstairs during the feast, and broke in the
wedding bed while Stannis and his bride were still dancing. Lord
Stannis seemed to think that was a blot on the honor of his
wife’s House, so when the boy was born, he shipped him off to
Renly.” He gave Ned a sideways glance. “I’ve also
heard whispers that Robert got a pair of twins on a serving wench
at Casterly Rock, three years ago when he went west for Lord
Tywin’s tourney. Cersei had the babes killed, and sold the
mother to a passing slaver. Too much an affront to Lannister pride,
that close to home.”
Ned Stark grimaced. Ugly tales like that were told of every
great lord in the realm. He could believe it of Cersei Lannister
readily enough . . . but would the king stand by and let it happen?
The Robert he had known would not have, but the Robert he had known
had never been so practiced at shutting his eyes to things he did
not wish to see. “Why would Jon Arryn take a sudden interest
in the king’s baseborn children?”
The short man gave a sodden shrug. “He was the
King’s Hand. Doubtless Robert asked him to see that they were
provided for.”
Ned was soaked through to the bone, and his soul had grown cold.
“It had to be more than that, or why kill him?”
Littlefinger shook the rain from his hair and laughed.
“Now I see. Lord Arryn learned that His Grace had filled the
bellies of some whores and fishwives, and for that he had to be
silenced. Small wonder. Allow a man like that to live, and next
he’s like to blurt out that the sun rises in the
east.”
There was no answer Ned Stark could give to that but a frown.
For the first time in years, he found himself remembering Rhaegar
Targaryen. He wondered if Rhaegar had frequented brothels; somehow
he thought not.
The rain was falling harder now, stinging the eyes and drumming
against the ground. Rivers of black water were running down the
hill when Jory called out, “My lord,” his voice hoarse
with alarm. And in an instant, the street was full of soldiers.
Ned glimpsed ringmail over leather, gauntlets and greaves, steel
helms with golden lions on the crests. Their cloaks clung to their
backs, sodden with rain. He had no time to count, but there were
ten at least, a line of them, on foot, blocking the street, with
longswords and iron-tipped spears. “Behind!” he heard
Wyl cry, and when he turned his horse, there were more in back of
them, cutting off their retreat. Jory’s sword came singing
from its scabbard. “Make way or die!”
“The wolves are howling,” their leader said. Ned
could see rain running down his face. “Such a small pack,
though.”
Littlefinger walked his horse forward, step by careful step.
“What is the meaning of this? This is the Hand of the
King.”
“He was the Hand of the King.” The mud muffled the
hooves of the blood bay stallion. The line parted before him. On a
golden breastplate, the lion of Lannister roared its defiance.
“Now, if truth be told, I’m not sure what he
is.”
“Lannister, this is madness,” Littlefinger said.
“Let us pass. We are expected back at the castle. What do you
think you’re doing?”
“He knows what he’s doing,” Ned said
calmly.
Jaime Lannister smiled. “Quite true. I’m looking for
my brother. You remember my brother, don’t you, Lord Stark?
He was with us at Winterfell. Fair-haired, mismatched eyes, sharp
of tongue. A short man.”
“I remember him well,” Ned replied.
“It would seem he has met some trouble on the road. My
lord father is quite vexed. You would not perchance have any notion
of who might have wished my brother ill, would you?”
“Your brother has been taken at my command, to answer for
his crimes,” Ned Stark said.
Littlefinger groaned in dismay. “My lords—”
Ser Jaime ripped his longsword from its sheath and urged his
stallion forward. “Show me your steel, Lord Eddard.
I’ll butcher you like Aerys if I must, but I’d sooner
you died with a blade in your hand.” He gave Littlefinger a
cool, contemptuous glance. “Lord Baelish, I’d leave
here in some haste if I did not care to get bloodstains on my
costly clothing.”
Littlefinger did not need to be urged. “I will bring the
City Watch,” he promised Ned. The Lannister line parted to
let him through, and closed behind him. Littlefinger put his heels
to his mare and vanished around a corner.
Ned’s men had drawn their swords, but they were three
against twenty. Eyes watched from nearby windows and doors, but no
one was about to intervene. His party was mounted, the Lannisters
on foot save for Jaime himself. A charge might win them free, but
it seemed to Eddard Stark that they had a surer, safer tactic.
“Kill me,” he warned the Kingslayer, “and Catelyn
will most certainly slay Tyrion.”
Jaime Lannister poked at Ned’s chest with the gilded sword
that had sipped the blood of the last of the Dragonkings.
“Would she? The noble Catelyn Tully of Riverrun murder a
hostage? I think . . . not.” He sighed. “But I am not
willing to chance my brother’s life on a woman’s
honor.” Jaime slid the golden sword into its sheath.
“So I suppose I’ll let you run back to Robert to tell
him how I frightened you. I wonder if he’ll care.”
Jaime pushed his wet hair back with his fingers and wheeled his
horse around. When he was beyond the line of swordsmen, he glanced
back at his captain. “Tregar, see that no harm comes to Lord
Stark.”
“As you say, m’lord.”
“Still . . . we wouldn’t want him to leave here
entirely unchastened, so”—through the night and the rain, he
glimpsed the white of Jaime’s smile—“kill his
men.”
“No!” Ned Stark screamed, clawing for his sword.
Jaime was already cantering off down the street as he heard Wyl
shout. Men closed from both sides. Ned rode one down, cutting at
phantoms in red cloaks who gave way before him. Jory Cassel put his
heels into his mount and charged. A steel-shod hoof caught a
Lannister guardsman in the face with a sickening crunch. A second
man reeled away and for an instant Jory was free. Wyl cursed as they pulled him off his dying
horse, swords slashing in the rain. Ned galloped to him, bringing
his longsword down on Tregar’s helm. The jolt of impact made
him grit his teeth. Tregar stumbled to his knees, his lion crest
sheared in half, blood running down his face. Heward was hacking at
the hands that had seized his bridle when a spear caught him in the
belly. Suddenly Jory was back among them, a red rain flying from
his sword. “No!” Ned shouted. “Jory, away!”
Ned’s horse slipped under him and came crashing down in the
mud. There was a moment of blinding pain and the taste of blood in
his mouth.
He saw them cut the legs from Jory’s mount and drag him to
the earth, swords rising and failing as they closed in around him.
When Ned’s horse lurched back to its feet, he tried to rise,
only to fall again, choking on his scream. He could see the
splintered bone poking through his calf. It was the last thing he
saw for a time. The rain came down and down and down.
When he opened his eyes again, Lord Eddard Stark was alone with
his dead. His horse moved closer, caught the rank scent of blood,
and galloped away. Ned began to drag himself through the mud,
gritting his teeth at the agony in his leg. It seemed to take
years. Faces watched from candlelit windows, and people began to
emerge from alleys and doors, but no one moved to help.
Littlefinger and the City Watch found him there in the street,
cradling Jory Cassel’s body in his arms.
Somewhere the gold cloaks found a litter, but the trip back to
the castle was a blur of agony, and Ned lost consciousness more
than once. He remembered seeing the Red Keep looming ahead of him
in the first grey light of dawn. The rain had darkened the pale
pink stone of the massive walls to the color of blood.
Then Grand Maester Pycelle was looming over him, holding a cup,
whispering, “Drink, my lord. Here. The milk of the poppy, for
your pain.” He remembered swallowing, and Pycelle was telling
someone to heat the wine to boiling and fetch him clean silk, and
that was the last he knew.