Third Person POV
299 AC, King's Landing – Small Council Chamber – Morning
The Small Council chamber in the Red Keep was a dim, oppressive space, its air thick with the scent of melted wax and intrigue. King Robert Baratheon slumped in the high-backed chair at the table's head, his once-mighty frame softened by wine and time, his bearded face etched with a grim scowl. Around him sat the council: Lord Varys, powdered and unreadable; Grand Maester Pycelle, hunched and wheezing; Lord Renly Baratheon, dashing in green velvet; and Petyr Baelish, his smirk sharp as his dagger. The narrow windows cast slanted light, glinting off goblets and inkwells, as tension hung like a storm cloud.
Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, entered, his grey cloak sweeping, his stern face catching Robert's dark expression. "What's happened?" Ned asked, his voice low, taking his seat with measured calm.
Varys's soft voice slithered through the silence. "Daenerys Targaryen, my lord, has wed the King of Uruk, Dominic Augustus."
Ned's brow furrowed, his grey eyes steady. "So? Should we send a gift?"
Robert's laugh was a bitter bark, his fist slamming the table, sloshing whiskey—Uruk's finest—in his goblet. "Aye, a dagger dipped in poison! That's the gift for dragonspawn!"
Ned's gaze shifted to Varys. "What of her brother, Viserys?"
"Last we heard," Varys said, fingers steepled, "he was attacking Uruk with a Dothraki horde. A reckless move, even for him."
Ned nodded, his voice flat. "Then we can conclude he's mad."
Renly leaned back, smirking. "As mad as his father, the Mad King. Burning cities, raving about dragons."
Robert's face reddened, his shout shaking the room. "I don't care how mad he is! I want all dragonspawn dead! Every last one, wiped from the earth!"
Ned's voice remained calm, a northern anchor. "There's a Narrow Sea between us, Robert. The Seven Kingdoms are yours. Targaryens are no threat, not now."
Robert's eyes narrowed, his voice a growl. "Better to end it before it festers, Ned. A dragon grows, it burns. I'll not wait for her to hatch a brood!"
He turned to Varys, his command sharp. "Send men, Spider. Assassins. Kill her, her brother, her damned husband if you must!"
Ned leaned forward, his voice firm, edged with warning. "You're courting disaster, Robert. If Uruk's queen is found dead, King Dominic won't stay silent. He'll turn his eyes here. Uruk trades with all Seven Kingdoms—your whiskey, your silks, and the food comes from their market. We have good relations. Don't throw that away for a rumor."
Robert's fist crashed again, whiskey spilling. "I don't give a damn about relations! I want them dead, Ned! Dragons breed trouble!"
Ned's jaw tightened, his voice low but unyielding. "You'll dishonor yourself, Robert. Killing a girl across the sea for what she might do? That's not the man I swore to serve."
Robert's face twisted, his shout echoing. "I've got seven kingdoms to rule! One king, seven kingdoms! You think honor keeps them in line? It's fear, Ned—fear and blood!"
Ned's eyes met his, unflinching. "Then we're no better than the Mad King."
The room stilled, Robert's face darkening. "Careful, Ned," he growled, his voice dangerous. "Careful now."
Ned's voice cut through, sharp and steady. "You want to assassinate a girl because the Spider heard a whisper? That's not justice. It's murder."
Robert's gaze swept the council, his voice a snarl. "You're my council! Speak some sense to this honorable fool!"
Varys's voice was silk, laced with poison. "I understand your misgivings, Lord Stark, truly I do. It's a terrible, vile thing we contemplate. Yet we who rule must sometimes commit vile acts for the realm's good. Should the gods grant Daenerys a son, a Targaryen heir, the realm will bleed. Old loyalties will stir, banners will rise. War will come."
Pycelle's reedy voice quavered, his hands trembling. "Should Uruk invade, my lords, how many innocents will perish? How many wives will mourn husbands, mothers their sons? Is it not wiser, kinder even, that one girl die now, so tens of thousands might live?"
Renly shrugged, his tone flippant. "We should've killed them both years ago, spared us this headache."
Baelish's eyes gleamed, his voice sly. "When you're abed with an ugly woman, my lord, close your eyes and do the deed. The realm's safety demands it."
Ned's face hardened, his voice rising with conviction. "I followed you into war twice, Robert, without doubt, without hesitation. But I won't follow you now. The Robert I knew didn't tremble at the shadow of an unborn child. He fought for justice, not butchery."
Robert's voice was iron. "She dies, Ned."
Ned stood, his grey eyes cold. "I'll have no part in it."
Robert leaned forward, his voice a thunderclap. "You're the King's Hand, Lord Stark! You'll do as I command, or I'll find a Hand who will!"
Ned unclasped the Hand's pin from his cloak, its weight heavy in his palm, and set it on the table with a soft clink. "Good luck with it, I thought you were a better man."
Robert surged to his feet, his face purple, the goblet toppling. "Get out, damn you! I'm done with you!"
Ned turned, striding for the door, Robert's shouts hounding him. "Go, run back to Winterfell! I'll have your head on a spike, you hear me? You think you're too good for this, too proud, too honorable? "
The door closed, muffling Robert's rage. Ned's boots echoed in the Red Keep's corridors, his heart heavy but unbowed. King's Landing's vipers would coil tighter now, but Winterfell called, his family waiting. Honor had cost him his title, perhaps his life, but he'd not stain his soul with a girl's blood.
Meanwhile
In one of the manses in Kingslanding, inside a large hall. Dust motes swirled in the slanting afternoon light, stirred by the sharp clash of steel echoing through the air. Arya Stark, thirteen years old, her dark hair bound in a messy braid, faced Syrio Forel, her Braavosi swordmaster, in a storm of motion. Two moons had passed since Lord Eddard Stark had permitted these secret lessons, cloaked as "dancing" to placate Sansa and Septa Mordane. Needle, the slender blade gifted by Jon Snow, gleamed in Arya's hand, her movements a seamless blend of instinct and deadly grace.
On their first day, Syrio, lean and sharp-eyed, had been stunned by Arya's prowess. Her grip on Needle, her footwork, her strikes—too precise, too lethal for a girl so young. Within a week, he'd abandoned wooden swords, entrusting her with real steel, a testament to her unnatural skill. Unknown to either, Arya's abilities were amplified by the Talia al Ghul card, now fully woven into her being, sharpening her reflexes to a predator's edge.
Their blades now danced, a rapid exchange of thrusts, parries, and ripostes, as fluid as a Braavosi canal. Arya lunged, Needle darting like a serpent's tongue, but Syrio, his water dancer's grace unmatched, deflected with his thin blade, spinning to counter. She ducked, her small frame a fleeting shadow, striking low, forcing him to leap back. Sparks flew as their swords met, the rhythm relentless, a symphony of steel. Arya's grey eyes blazed with focus, her body moving as if guided by an unseen hand, each motion instinctive, honed beyond her years. Syrio pressed, his strikes probing her defenses, but she matched him, her speed a rival to his decades of experience.
The duel surged, blades blurring in the fading light. Arya feinted high, then slashed low, nearly grazing Syrio's thigh, but he twisted, his blade catching hers in a bind. With a flick of his wrist, he sent Needle spinning to the dirt, his sword tip hovering at her chest. "Enough!" Syrio called, his breath ragged, a rare smile breaking his stern facade. Arya scowled, snatching Needle from the ground, but her chest heaved with exhilaration, not anger, her heart racing from the thrill.
They collapsed onto rough wooden chairs at the halls edge, sweat glistening on their brows. Syrio passed a waterskin to Arya, who drank greedily, her face flushed with effort. "Still, I am shocked, little wolf," Syrio said, his Braavosi accent thick, his black eyes studying her with a mix of awe and curiosity. "Two moons, and you fight like a shadow, silent, swift, deadly. Never have I seen a child of ten and three—nay, any soul—wield a blade so. You are no mere girl, Arya Stark; you are a storm cloaked in flesh, a blade born of the gods' whim."
Arya shrugged, wiping her mouth with her sleeve, her voice casual but tinged with pride. "I don't know how. My body just moves on its own. It's like… I see the strike before I think it, and my hands do the rest."
Syrio nodded, stroking his pointed beard, his gaze piercing. "Instinct, yes, but something deeper flows in you. The water dance lives in your blood, perhaps, or a stranger magic. The gods have marked you, my shadow, for a purpose yet veiled." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a warning. "But take care—such skill draws eyes, and King's Landing is a nest of serpents, each with venom for the unwary."
Arya's lips curled into a wolf's grin, her grey eyes glinting. "Let them slither close. I'll stick them with the pointy end."
Syrio's chuckle was a rare, warm sound, cutting through the yard's quiet. "Bold words, little wolf. You have the heart of a bravo." He stood, stretching his wiry frame, his blade catching the light. "Shall we dance again, my shadow?"
Arya's face lit up, her grip tightening on Needle's worn hilt. "Aye," she said, leaping to her feet, dust swirling around her scuffed boots. They took their stances, blades raised, the world fading as the dance resumed. Steel sang, Arya's movements a fusion of Talia al Ghul's lethal precision and her own untamed spirit, each clash a step toward a destiny she could not yet see. In King's Landing's treacherous web, her blade was her truth, and Syrio's lessons her shield against the gathering storm.