A Game Of Thrones [ASOIAF #1]

Chapter 35: EDDARD [IX]

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 falling 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.