Eddard Stark rode through the towering bronze doors of the Red Keep sore, tired, hungry, andirritable. He was still ahorse, dreaming of a long hot soak, a roast fowl, and a featherbed, when theking’s steward told him that Grand Maester Pycelle had convened an urgent meeting of the smallcouncil. The honor of the Hand’s presence was requested as soon as it was convenient. “It will beconvenient on the morrow,” Ned snapped as he dismounted.

The steward bowed very low. “I shall give the councillors your regrets, my lord.”

“No, damn it,” Ned said. It would not do to offend the council before he had even begun. “I willsee them. Pray give me a few moments to change into something more presentable.”

“Yes, my lord,” the steward said. “We have given you Lord Arryn’s former chambers in theTower of the Hand, if it please you. I shall have your things taken there.”

“My thanks,” Ned said as he ripped off his riding gloves and tucked them into his belt. The rest ofhis household was coming through the gate behind him. Ned saw Vayon Poole, his own steward, andcalled out. “It seems the council has urgent need of me. See that my daughters find theirbedchambers, and tell Jory to keep them there. Arya is not to go exploring,” Poole bowed. Ned turnedback to the royal steward. “My wagons are still straggling through the city. I shall need appropriategarments.”

“It will be my great pleasure,” the steward said.

And so Ned had come striding into the council chambers, bone-tired and dressed in borrowedclothing, to find four members of the small council waiting for him.

The chamber was richly furnished. Myrish carpets covered the floor instead of rushes, and in onecorner a hundred fabulous beasts cavorted in bright paints on a carved screen from the Summer Isles.

The walls were hung with tapestries from Norvos and Qohor and Lys, and a pair of Valyrian sphinxesflanked the door, eyes of polished garnet smoldering in black marble faces.

The councillor Ned liked least, the eunuch Varys, accosted him the moment he entered. “LordStark, I was grievous sad to hear about your troubles on the kingsroad. We have all been visiting thesept to light candles for Prince Joffrey. I pray for his recovery.” His hand left powder stains on Ned’ssleeve, and he smelled as foul and sweet as flowers on a grave.

“Your gods have heard you,” Ned replied, cool yet polite. “The prince grows stronger every day.”

He disentangled himself from the eunuch’s grip and crossed the room to where Lord Renly stood bythe screen, talking quietly with a short man who could only be Littlefinger. Renly had been a boy ofeight when Robert won the throne, but he had grown into a man so like his brother that Ned found itdisconcerting. Whenever he saw him, it was as if the years had slipped away and Robert stood beforehim, fresh from his victory on the Trident.

“I see you have arrived safely, Lord Stark,” Renly said.

“And you as well,” Ned replied. “You must forgive me, but sometimes you look the very imageof your brother Robert.”

“A poor copy,” Renly said with a shrug.

“Though much better dressed,” Littlefinger quipped. “Lord Renly spends more on clothing thanhalf the ladies of the court.”

It was true enough. Lord Renly was in dark green velvet, with a dozen golden stags embroidered onhis doublet. A cloth-of-gold half cape was draped casually across one shoulder, fastened with anemerald brooch. “There are worse crimes,” Renly said with a laugh. “The way you dress, for one.” you dress, for one.”

Littlefinger ignored the jibe. He eyed Ned with a smile on his lips that bordered on insolence. “Ihave hoped to meet you for some years, Lord Stark. No doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me toyou.”

“She has,” Ned replied with a chill in his voice. The sly arrogance of the comment rankled him. “Iunderstand you knew my brother Brandon as well.”

Renly Baratheon laughed. Varys shuffled over to listen.

“Rather too well,” Littlefinger said. “I still carry a token of his esteem. Did Brandon speak of metoo?”

“Often, and with some heat,” Ned said, hoping that would end it. He had no patience with thisgame they played, this dueling with words.

“I should have thought that heat ill suits you Starks,” Littlefinger said. “Here in the south, theysay you are all made of ice, and melt when you ride below the Neck.”

“I do not plan on melting soon, Lord Baelish. You may count on it.” Ned moved to the counciltable and said, “Maester Pycelle, I trust you are well.”

The Grand Maester smiled gently from his tall chair at the foot of the table. “Well enough for aman of my years, my lord,” he replied, “yet I do tire easily, I fear.” Wispy strands of white hairfringed the broad bald dome of his forehead above a kindly face. His maester’s collar was no simplemetal choker such as Luwin wore, but two dozen heavy chains wound together into a ponderous metalnecklace that covered him from throat to breast. The links were forged of every metal known to man:

black iron and red gold, bright copper and dull lead, steel and tin and pale silver, brass and bronze andplatinum. Garnets and amethysts and black pearls adorned the metal-work, and here and there anemerald or ruby. “Perhaps we might begin soon,” the Grand Maester said, hands knitting togetheratop his broad stomach. “I fear I shall fall asleep if we wait much longer.”

“As you will.” The king’s seat sat empty at the head of the table, the crowned stag of Baratheonembroidered in gold thread on its pillows. Ned took the chair beside it, as the right hand of his king.

“My lords,” he said formally, “I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“You are the King’s Hand,” Varys said. “We serve at your pleasure, Lord Stark.”

As the others took their accustomed seats, it struck Eddard Stark forcefully that he did not belonghere, in this room, with these men. He remembered what Robert had told him in the crypts belowWinterfell. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools, the king had insisted. Ned looked down thecouncil table and wondered which were the flatterers and which the fools. He thought he knewalready. “We are but five,” he pointed out.

“Lord Stannis took himself to Dragonstone not long after the king went north,” Varys said, “andour gallant Ser Barristan no doubt rides beside the king as he makes his way through the city, as befitsthe Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

“Perhaps we had best wait for Ser Barristan and the king to join us,” Ned suggested.

Renly Baratheon laughed aloud. “If we wait for my brother to grace us with his royal presence, itcould be a long sit.”

“Our good King Robert has many cares,” Varys said. “He entrusts some small matters to us, tolighten his load.”

“What Lord Varys means is that all this business of coin and crops and justice bores my royalbrother to tears,” Lord Renly said, “so it falls to us to govern the realm. He does send us a commandfrom time to time.” He drew a tightly rolled paper from his sleeve and laid it on the table. “Thismorning he commanded me to ride ahead with all haste and ask Grand Maester Pycelle to convenethis council at once. He has an urgent task for us.”

Littlefinger smiled and handed the paper to Ned. It bore the royal seal. Ned broke the wax with histhumb and flattened the letter to consider the king’s urgent command, reading the words withmounting disbelief. Was there no end to Robert’s folly? And to do this in his name, that was salt inthe wound. “Gods be good,” he swore.

“What Lord Eddard means to say,” Lord Renly announced, “is that His Grace instructs us to stagea great tournament in honor of his appointment as the Hand of the King.”

“How much?” asked Littlefinger, mildly.

Ned read the answer off the letter. “Forty thousand golden dragons to the champion. Twentythousand to the man who comes second, another twenty to the winner of the melee, and tenthousand to the victor of the archery competition.”

“Ninety thousand gold pieces,” Littlefinger sighed. “And we must not neglect the other costs.

Robert will want a prodigious feast. That means cooks, carpenters, serving girls, singers, jugglers,fools …”

“Fools we have in plenty,” Lord Renly said.

Grand Maester Pycelle looked to Littlefinger and asked, “Will the treasury bear the expense?”

“What treasury is that?” Littlefinger replied with a twist of his mouth. “Spare me the foolishness,Maester. You know as well as I that the treasury has been empty for years. I shall have to borrow themoney. No doubt the Lannisters will be accommodating. We owe Lord Tywin some three milliondragons at present, what matter another hundred thousand?”

Ned was stunned. “Are you claiming that the Crown is three million gold pieces in debt?”

“The Crown is more than six million gold pieces in debt, Lord Stark. The Lannisters are thebiggest part of it, but we have also borrowed from Lord Tyrell, the Iron Bank of Braavos, and severalTyroshi trading cartels. Of late I’ve had to turn to the Faith. The High Septon haggles worse than aDornish fishmonger.”

Ned was aghast. “Aerys Targaryen left a treasury flowing with gold. How could you let thishappen?”

Littlefinger gave a shrug. “The master of coin finds the money. The king and the Hand spend it.”

“I will not believe that Jon Arryn allowed Robert to beggar the realm,” Ned said hotly.

Grand Maester Pycelle shook his great bald head, his chains clinking softly. “Lord Arryn was aprudent man, but I fear that His Grace does not always listen to wise counsel.”

“My royal brother loves tournaments and feasts,” Renly Baratheon said, “and he loathes what hecalls ‘counting coppers.’”

“I will speak with His Grace,” Ned said. “This tourney is an extravagance the realm cannotafford.”

“Speak to him as you will,” Lord Renly said, “we had still best make our plans.”

“Another day,” Ned said. Perhaps too sharply, from the looks they gave him. He would have toremember that he was no longer in Winterfell, where only the king stood higher; here, he was but firstamong equals. “Forgive me, my lords,” he said in a softer tone. “I am tired. Let us call a halt for todayand resume when we are fresher.” He did not ask for their consent, but stood abruptly, nodded at themall, and made for the door.

Outside, wagons and riders were still pouring through the castle gates, and the yard was a chaos ofmud and horseflesh and shouting men. The king had not yet arrived, he was told. Since the uglinesson the Trident, the Starks and their household had ridden well ahead of the main column, the better toseparate themselves from the Lannisters and the growing tension. Robert had hardly been seen; thetalk was he was traveling in the huge wheelhouse, drunk as often as not. If so, he might be hoursbehind, but he would still be here too soon for Ned’s liking. He had only to look at Sansa’s face tofeel the rage twisting inside him once again. The last fortnight of their journey had been a misery.

Sansa blamed Arya and told her that it should have been Nymeria who died. And Arya was lost aftershe heard what had happened to her butcher’s boy. Sansa cried herself to sleep, Arya brooded silentlyall day long, and Eddard Stark dreamed of a frozen hell reserved for the Starks of Winterfell.

He crossed the outer yard, passed under a portcullis into the inner bailey, and was walking towardwhat he thought was the Tower of the Hand when Littlefinger appeared in front of him. “You’regoing the wrong way, Stark. Come with me.”

Hesitantly, Ned followed. Littlefinger led him into a tower, down a stair, across a small sunkencourtyard, and along a deserted corridor where empty suits of armor stood sentinel along the walls.

They were relics of the Targaryens, black steel with dragon scales cresting their helms, now dusty andforgotten. “This is not the way to my chambers,” Ned said.

“Did I say it was? I’m leading you to the dungeons to slit your throat and seal your corpse upbehind a wall,” Littlefinger replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “We have no time for this, Stark.

Your wife awaits.”

“What game are you playing, Littlefinger? Catelyn is at Winterfell, hundreds of leagues fromhere.”

“Oh?” Littlefinger’s grey-green eyes glittered with amusement. “Then it appears someone hasmanaged an astonishing impersonation. For the last time, come. Or don’t come, and I’ll keep herfor myself.” He hurried down the steps.

rfor myself.” He hurried down the steps.

Ned followed him warily, wondering if this day would ever end. He had no taste for these intrigues,but he was beginning to realize that they were meat and mead to a man like Littlefinger.

At the foot of the steps was a heavy door of oak and iron. Petyr Baelish lifted the crossbar andgestured Ned through. They stepped out into the ruddy glow of dusk, on a rocky bluff high above theriver. “We’re outside the castle,” Ned said.

“You are a hard man to fool, Stark,” Littlefinger said with a smirk. “Was it the sun that gave itaway, or the sky? Follow me. There are niches cut in the rock. Try not to fall to your death, Catelynwould never understand.” With that, he was over the side of the cliff, descending as quick as amonkey.

Ned studied the rocky face of the bluff for a moment, then followed more slowly. The niches werethere, as Littlefinger had promised, shallow cuts that would be ............