Third Person POV
299 AC, The Kingsroad
The Kingsroad wound through rolling hills, its dust stirred by the hooves of Catelyn Stark's small retinue as they rode toward the Vale. Catelyn, her auburn hair tucked beneath a hooded cloak, sat tall in her saddle, her blue eyes steely with resolve. Beside her, bound and sullen, rode Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, his wrists chafed by ropes, his sharp tongue silenced by her command. She had seized him at the Crossroads Inn, convinced by Littlefinger's dagger that he'd tried to kill Bran. Her men—knights and freeriders loyal to House Tully guarded the dwarf closely, their faces grim. The Vale, where her sister Lysa ruled as Lady of the Eyrie, promised justice, or so Catelyn believed. Tyrion's green-and-black eyes glinted with defiance, but he held his tongue, sensing the futility of argument against Catelyn's wrath. The road ahead was perilous, with Lannister gold and blades likely in pursuit, but Catelyn pressed on, her heart set on protecting her family.
King's Landing
The Kinglanding air was thick with tension, its stone walls echoing with whispers of betrayal. Jaime Lannister, resplendent in his Kingsguard white, confronted Eddard Stark in the streets near a brothel, his golden hair gleaming, his smile sharp as Valyrian steel. Words turned to swords when Jaime accused Ned of complicity in Tyrion's capture. The clash was swift and brutal—Ned's Ice met Jaime's blade in a storm of steel, their skill evenly matched. But a Lannister bannerman, eager for favor, drove a spear through Ned's leg, the point biting deep into muscle. Ned fell, blood pooling, his men cut down around him. Jaime, his face darkening, ordered his men to stand down, sparing Ned further harm but leaving him crippled, a warning delivered. "Tell your wife to release my brother, Stark," Jaime hissed before vanishing into the city's maze.
Ned, his leg bandaged and throbbing, and sleeping in his chambers, woke up to see King Robert Baratheon, his face flushed with wine, sitting near his bed, his temper fraying. "Tywin Lannister is attacking the Riverlands because your wife kidnapped his youngest son. You've got a war brewing with the bloody Lannisters, Ned! I need you, damn it. You're Hand again—don't argue." Ned, grimacing, accepted the pin, his honor binding him despite the pain. Robert, restless, declared a hunt to clear his head, dismissing Ned's pleas to stay. "A king hunts, Ned. Boars don't scare me."
The Hunt
In the Kingswood, Robert's hunt turned deadly. A boar, massive and enraged, charged through the underbrush, its tusks ripping into Robert's side, blood gushing from a ragged wound. His men carried him back to the Red Keep, the king roaring in pain, whiskey his only solace. On his deathbed, Robert's fevered voice was weak, his massive frame shrunken. Made his final will, making eddard stark regent. And Crown Prince Joffrey will become king when he is of age. Ned, his grey eyes heavy with the truth he withheld—that Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen were Jaime and Cersei's bastards—wrote it, saying his descendant would sit on the Iron Throne. He couldn't shatter Robert's final moments with such treachery. Robert died, his breath rattling, leaving the realm teetering on a knife's edge.
King's Landing – Throne Room – Morning
The Iron Throne loomed, its twisted blades glinting in the torchlight. Joffrey Baratheon, a boy of fifteen with golden curls and a cruel smirk, sat upon it, his mother, Cersei Lannister, regal in crimson silk, seated beside him as Queen Regent. Ned limped into the throne room, supported by a cane, his Stark guards at his back. The court buzzed—Lords Varys, Petyr Baelish, and Grand Maester Pycelle watched, their faces unreadable. Ned held Robert's final will, sealed with the king's stag sigil, naming him regent.
"Your Grace," Ned said, his voice steady despite his pain. "King Robert's will names me Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm until you come of age."
Joffrey's eyes narrowed, his voice petulant. "I am king now, Stark. I need no regent."
Cersei rose, her smile venomous. "Let us see this will, Lord Stark." Ned handed it to Ser Barristan Selmy, who passed it to Cersei. She scanned it, then tore it to shreds, the pieces fluttering to the floor. "A dead man's words hold no weight," she declared. "My son is king."
Ned's jaw tightened. "This is treason." He turned to the court, expecting support, but Baelish stepped forward, his mocking smile a betrayal. "I'm afraid the City Watch stands with the king, Lord Stark." Goldcloaks flooded the throne room, led by Janos Slynt, their spears gleaming. Ned's guards drew swords, but they were outnumbered.
"Take them," Cersei commanded, her voice cold. Ned was seized, his wrists bound. Ned's leg throbbed, but his grey eyes burned with defiance. "You'll answer for this, Lannister," he growled.
Cersei's smile was ice. "Take Lord Stark to the black cells. Lady Sansa will remain in the Red Keep, a guest." She turned to Janos Slynt, her voice sharp. "Find Arya Stark. Search every corner of King's Landing. Bring her to me, alive."
Slynt bowed, his piggish eyes glinting. "As you command, Your Grace." He strode out, barking orders to his goldcloaks, who fanned into the city, scouring alleys, taverns, and brothels for the missing Stark
The Manse of the Water Dancer
In a manse near the Street of Steel, Arya Stark, Thirteen and fierce, sparred with Syrio Forel, her Braavosi swordmaster. Needle flashed, her movements a blend of Talia al Ghul's lethal precision and her own wolfish spirit, honed over two moons of training. Dust swirled in the dim light, their blades singing a deadly duet. Syrio, lean and sharp-eyed, parried her thrust, his voice calm. "Swift, little wolf, but see the truth of your foe."
The doors opened, revealing Janos Slynt and ten gold cloaks, their crimson capes stark against the manse's decay. Slynt's voice was oily, his smile false. "Lady Arya, your father, Lord Stark, commands you to come to the Tower of the Hand at once."
Arya, panting, nodded, stepping forward, but Syrio's hand halted her, his eyes narrowing. "Why would Lord Stark send Lannister men to fetch his child?" he asked, his Braavosi accent sharp. "Arya Stark will come when Stark men call for her, not before."
Slynt's face darkened, his deceit unmasked. With a snarl, he drew his sword, his men fanning out, blades gleaming. "Take her!" he barked.
Syrio moved like water, his thin blade a blur, striking the nearest gold cloak's wrist, sending his sword clattering. Arya lunged, Needle darting, piercing a man's thigh, her small frame a shadow among the giants. The manse erupted into chaos—steel clashing, men grunting, blood spattering the stone floor. Syrio danced, his blade weaving death, felling two gold cloaks with precise thrusts. Arya, her grey eyes blazing, fought beside him, Needle slipping through gaps in armor, her Talia-enhanced reflexes a match for grown men.
Slynt, his bulk slowing him, swung wildly, but Syrio parried, his blade grazing Slynt's cheek. Arya darted low, stabbing a gold cloak's knee, toppling him with a scream. Together, they carved through the City Watch, their dance a whirlwind of steel and blood. Slynt, bleeding and enraged, lunged at Arya, but Syrio's blade found his throat, a red smile opening beneath his beard. The commander gurgled, collapsing, his men faltering at the sight. The last gold cloaks fell, their crimson capes pooling like blood.
Arya and Syrio stood amid the carnage, breathing hard, blood dripping from Needle's tip. "We must go," Syrio said, his voice urgent. They took what they could from the gold cloak's daggers, knives, and coins, then they fled the manse, slipping into King's Landing's labyrinthine alleys, hiding in a derelict building near Flea Bottom, its sagging beams cloaking them in shadow. Arya clutched Needle, her heart pounding.
The Queen's Wrath
In the Red Keep, Cersei Lannister seethed as news of Janos Slynt's death reached her. Her golden hair gleamed under torchlight, her voice a venomous hiss. "That wretched girl killed my commander! Search every hovel, every alley—turn King's Landing upside down! Bring Arya Stark to me alive!"
The City Watch, now leaderless, swarmed the city, gold cloaks kicking down doors, overturning market stalls, and terrorizing smallfolk. Flea Bottom buzzed with whispers of the "wolf girl" who'd slain a dozen men, her legend growing in the shadows. Cersei, her grip on the throne tightening, declared Ned a traitor. Sansa, confined and weeping, pleaded for her sister's safety, unaware of the noose tightening around House Stark.
In their hideout, Arya crouched beside Syrio, her grey eyes hard. "They'll never take me," she whispered, Needle in hand. Syrio nodded, his voice low. "The wolf does not kneel, little one. We wait, we watch, then we strike." King's Landing was a cage, but Arya Stark was no prey—she was a shadow, a blade, and her fight was beginning.