Third Person POV
298 AC, King's Landing – Small Council Chamber – Morning
The Small Council chamber in the Red Keep was a stifling room, its air heavy with the scent of wax and old parchment. Narrow windows let in slivers of sunlight, casting long shadows across the polished table where Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, sat at the head. His grey eyes, stern as Winterfell's walls, fixed on Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch, whose florid face glistened with sweat under his gold cloak.
"My lord," Janos whined, his voice grating, "the City Watch is stretched thin. Half a million souls in King's Landing, and only two thousand men to keep order. We can't patrol every alley, not with thieves, cutthroats, and drunks spilling from Flea Bottom."
Ned's jaw tightened, his patience fraying. "That doesn't mean you can slack in your duty, Slynt. The king's peace must hold, or this city will eat itself."
Janos spread his meaty hands, defensive. "I'm doing what I can, Lord Stark! Two thousand against half a million—impossible odds. We need more men, more coin."
Ned leaned forward, his voice cold as northern frost. "I'll lend a hundred of my household guards to the Watch. See to it that crime is controlled. No more excuses."
Janos's eyes darted, his mouth opening to protest, but he thought better of it under Ned's glare. "As you command, my lord," he muttered, sinking back.
The council moved to other matters—grain shortages, tensions with the Free Cities, and whispers of unrest in the Riverlands. Lord Varys, his powdered face unreadable, offered tidbits of intelligence, while Petyr Baelish, smirking, juggled numbers to mask the crown's debts. Grand Maester Pycelle droned about omens, and Renly Baratheon quipped about tourneys. Ned listened, his mind half on the North, where his son Robb held Winterfell, and on Jon, now in distant Uruk. After hours of wrangling, Ned adjourned the council, his shoulders tight with the weight of a city he distrusted.
Tower of the Hand – Midday
Ned climbed the spiral stairs to the Tower of the Hand, craving the quiet of his quarters and a simple meal. The Red Keep's opulence—its tapestries, gilded sconces, and perfumed air—felt alien, a far cry from Winterfell's honest stone. As he entered his solar, he found Sansa, Arya, and Septa Mordane at the table, a spread of roasted capon, bread, and stewed plums before them.
Sansa, her auburn hair braided neatly, ate with delicate precision, her blue eyes flickering with irritation. Septa Mordane, stern and grey, tutted loudly as Arya, her dark hair a tangled mess, stabbed her meat repeatedly with a knife, each thrust deliberate. The clink of steel on plate grated in the quiet room.
"Arya," Septa Mordane snapped, "that is no way for a lady to behave. Stop butchering your food."
Arya's grey eyes flashed, her lips curling. "I'm practicing."
"Practicing for what?" the septa asked, her voice sharp.
Arya's gaze hardened, her voice low but fierce. "For when Joffrey comes near me again."
Sansa slammed her spoon down, her face flushing. "Arya, you're so embarrassing! Why must you always act like a savage?"
Arya whirled on her sister, knife still in hand. "Better a savage than a liar who defends that monster! You saw what he did to Micah!"
"Enough!" Ned's voice cut through, deep and commanding. Both girls froze, Sansa's cheeks red, Arya's jaw set. "Arya, go to your room. Now."
Arya shoved her chair back, glaring at Sansa before stalking out, her boots echoing on the stone floor. Ned sighed, rubbing his temples, and turned to Sansa, who sat with her hands folded, tears brimming. "Sansa, why must you always fight with your sister?"
Sansa's voice trembled, her words spilling out. "She's impossible, Father! She's wild, rude, and she humiliated Joffrey on the Kingsroad! Everyone whispers about it, and I'm the one betrothed to him! She's ruining everything!"
Ned's heart ached for his eldest daughter, caught in a web of courtly dreams and harsh realities. "I'll speak to her," he said gently. "But you're sisters, Sansa. You must stand together, not tear each other apart."
Sansa nodded, wiping her eyes, but her expression remained sullen. Ned finished his meal in silence, the capon tasteless, his thoughts on Arya's fire and the dangers of King's Landing's vipers.
Arya's Room – Afternoon
Ned knocked on Arya's door, its oak heavy under his knuckles. "Arya, it's me."
A muffled grumble answered, and he entered to find Arya standing by her narrow bed, her back to him, hands hidden behind her. The room was sparse—a mattress, a chest, a small window overlooking the Red Keep's courtyard. Arya's tunic was dirt-streaked, her hair a wild tangle, but her grey eyes, so like his own, burned with defiance.
"What are you hiding?" Ned asked, his tone calm but firm.
"Nothing," Arya said quickly, her shoulders tensing.
Ned raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. "Come now, show me. I won't be mad."
Arya hesitated, then sighed, pulling a slender sword from behind her back. Its blade was thin, almost delicate, its hilt wrapped in worn leather. Needle.
"Where did you get this?" Ned asked, though he suspected the answer.
Arya's chin lifted, her voice proud. "Jon gave it to me before he left for Essos. A parting gift."
Ned took the sword, testing its balance, its lightness perfect for Arya's small frame. "Then you should know how to wield it."
Arya's eyes lit up. "I do!"
Ned chuckled, handing Needle back. "Yes, yes, you do." His tone grew teasing, but he saw the spark in her eyes, the same fire that had disarmed Joffrey on the Kingsroad. "But do you, truly?"
"I do!" Arya insisted, gripping the hilt. "I'm good, Father. Better than Joffrey, anyway."
Ned's smile faded, replaced by curiosity. "How about I find you a swordmaster? We'll keep it secret—tell Sansa you're going for dancing lessons."
Arya's face transformed, a beaming smile breaking through her usual scowl. "Really?" she gasped, her voice high with excitement.
Ned nodded, warmth spreading in his chest. "Really."
Arya squealed, launching herself at him, her arms wrapping around his waist. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she repeated, her face buried in his tunic.
Ned hugged her back, chuckling. "Alright, little wolf, enough." He stepped back, gesturing to Needle. "Show me what you can do."
Arya grinned, stepping into the center of the room. She assumed a stance, Needle flashing as she moved—thrust, parry, riposte, her feet gliding across the floor with a grace that stunned Ned. Her strikes were precise, her form fluid, like a seasoned veteran rather than a girl of thirteen. She spun, slashing an imaginary foe, then stopped, breathing lightly, her eyes bright.
Ned's jaw slackened, awe mingling with unease. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Arya shrugged, sheathing Needle. "I don't know. I just… do it. Instinct, I guess."
Ned's brow furrowed. "Arya."
"Really, Father!" she insisted, her voice earnest. "It's like my body knows what to do."
Ned studied her, the wolf's blood in her veins undeniable, but this skill… it was unnatural, almost otherworldly.
"I'll find you a swordmaster as soon as I can," he said, his voice firm. "Someone discreet, skilled. Until then, practice quietly, and keep Needle hidden."
Arya nodded eagerly, her smile undimmed. "I will, Father. Promise."
Ned ruffled her hair, a rare softness in his stern face. "Good. Now, no more bickering with Sansa, aye?"
Arya rolled her eyes but nodded. "Aye."
Ned left the room, the door closing softly, his mind a tangle of pride and worry. Arya's fire was a gift, but in King's Landing, it could burn her—or the realm. He resolved to find a master, perhaps a Braavosi water dancer, to hone her skill and keep her safe. The game of thrones was treacherous, and his little wolf needed claws.
Meanwhile, Across the Narrow Sea
In Uruk's Egalmah palace, Jon Snow grappled with his new identity as Aemon Targaryen, training with the Unsullied under Dominic's command. Daenerys's dragons—Morghul, Rhaegal, Tyraxes—grew fiercer, their bond with her strengthening. Dominic's plans to liberate Essos's slaves and conquer the Free Cities took shape, while Viserys's khalasar drew closer, a storm of madness on the horizon. Aeron Sand has just arrived in Uruk, bearing Doran Martell's alliance. The world turned, pieces moving on a board vast and perilous, with King's Landing's tensions a mere spark in the gathering fire.