[The Vale of Arryn, The Eyrie, last days of the 3rd Moon, 299AC]
The Eyrie felt colder than Ned remembered.
The mountain air had always been sharp this high above the world, and winter was crawling slowly south besides. But when he had been younger, the castle had felt alive despite the cold. Jon Arryn had filled these halls with laughter, arguments, knights, squires, barking dogs, and the noise of boys growing into men.
Now the castle felt hollow.
Beautiful still.
But hollow.
Ned stood beside one of the narrow stone windows overlooking the valley far below while dawn crept slowly across the mountains. Tundra rested nearby with her great white head atop her paws, pale eyes half-open as servants hurried nervously through the corridor behind them, carrying wood and food.
None came too close to the direwolf.
Ned noticed it with half-amusement, now being all too familiar with the terror on others' faces when met with the majestic she-wolf.
They stared when they thought he was not looking. Some prayed to the seven to themselves quietly. Others whispered about omens and old gods when they thought themselves unheard.
Word traveled faster than ravens these days. Stories faster still.
The majority of Westeros must have heard some tale of what had happened over the past weeks and months.
Jaime Lannister dead beneath Riverrun.
The Golden Tooth has just recently fallen.
Direwolves stalking battlefields like demons from old songs.
The North declaring kings once more.
And at the center of every story stood his nephew Alaric.
Ned rubbed tired fingers across his beard.
His nephew had become something larger than any of them would have envisioned, his nephew had always been destined for greatness. Ned did not doubt that, but not one man of the North could have claimed they foresaw the future where another King in the North would be crowned.
The sound of heavy boots pulled him from his thoughts.
"The bloody mountain air makes my knees ache," Greatjon Umber grumbled as he approached, cloak hanging loose from his broad shoulders. "I'd rather freeze north of the Wall than spend another week climbing these cursed stairs."
"You've complained about the stairs every day since we arrived," Ned said.
"And I'll complain tomorrow too."
Lord Artos Stark came behind him, quieter as always, his long dark-grey cloak hanging neatly from his shoulders. Unlike Greatjon, Artos seemed entirely comfortable within the Eyrie's stone halls, though his sharp grey eyes missed little.
"The Vale lords are gathering again," Artos said. "Lord Royce asked for us below."
Ned nodded once.
"Has Lady Arryn appeared yet?"
Artos exchanged a glance with Greatjon.
"No," the older Stark answered.
Greatjon snorted. "Woman's half-mad. Everyone in this castle knows it."
Ned did not answer immediately.
Lysa had changed.
That much was plain.
He remembered a shy girl following Cat through Riverrun's halls years ago, desperate for approval and affection. The woman ruling the Eyrie now barely resembled that memory.
Fear had eaten her.
Fear and isolation.
Tundra rose slowly beside him as they began walking, the direwolf padding silently through the corridors while servants quickly stepped aside. One young boy carrying firewood nearly dropped his bundle entirely when the wolf passed him.
Greatjon barked a laugh. "Gods, lad, she's not about to eat you."
The boy looked unconvinced, much to the booming Umber's amusement.
The Eyrie's throne room had begun filling by the time Ned arrived.
Lords, knights, retainers, and household guards stood gathered in clusters beneath the blue-and-silver banners of House Arryn while servants moved quietly between them with wine and bread.
The atmosphere remained tense.
Not openly hostile.
But far from cordial all the same.
Every man here watched every other man carefully.
Lord Yohn Royce stood near the high table, speaking quietly with Lord Horton Redfort when Ned approached. Bronze armor laden with the improved runes carved by Alaric during Lord Royce's visit north, glimmered faintly beneath his heavy cloak, though he wore no helm indoors.
"Lord Eddard, the Eyrie's air is agreeing with you, I hope?" Royce greeted.
"Bronze Yohn," Greatjon cut in. "Still ugly as ever."
Lord Royce grunted. "And you still stink of ale."
"That's because I drink it."
A faint smile touched Lord Redfort's mouth before fading again.
Something felt wrong in the hall this morning. Ned could feel it beneath the conversations and forced politeness.
People were waiting.
The hall doors opened again moments later.
The conversations around them shifted immediately.
Ser Harrold Hardyng entered with three knights behind him, the young man being a year or two older than Robb, had been knighted by Lord Royce during the Hand's Tourney following his win in the squires' melee.
Apparently, he originally hadn't planned to come to King's Landing, but at the last minute had asked to accompany Lord Royce, having sighted his desire to meet Alaric and witness the Direwolves for himself, a goal he was largely unsuccessful with given the situation.
Harry the Heir, many called him, out of earshot from Lysa, that is, the last servant to call him that in her presence, found himself flying through the moon gate, or so he had heard at least.
The young knight moved with confidence, most boys his age tried too hard to imitate. Tall, fair-haired, handsome enough to make maidens stare openly, he wore blue velvet beneath polished plate chased with silver falcons. His expression remained calm as he entered the hall, though Ned noticed how quickly Harry's eyes measured the room.
Not nervous, but with a measured ease and even caution that was mostly absent from men his age.
The young knight noticed Tundra almost immediately.
His gaze lingered on the direwolf longer than most men dared.
"So the stories are true," Harry said as he approached.
Tundra watched him silently.
Ned studied the young man carefully. "Depends which stories you've heard."
Harry smiled faintly. "That your nephew marches with wolves larger than horses and fights like the old Kings of Winter returned from the grave."
Greatjon barked a laugh at that. "Not far wrong either."
Harry looked back toward Ned. "And the Golden Tooth?"
"Fell to Alaric's host just two days ago, according to the raven I received this morning."
That answer quieted several nearby conversations.
Harry nodded slowly. "Impressive."
Ned caught something in his expression then.
Not fear, or disinterest, but rather, he looked intrigued.
The sort of look ambitious young men wore when they saw history moving in front of them and wanted desperately not to be left behind by it.
"You admire him," Ned said plainly.
Harry met his gaze directly. "I admire victories, and I also admire great men whose own men admire them."
Honest enough.
"That's dangerous," Artos said quietly from beside Ned.
Harry glanced toward him. "Only for the losing side."
That earned the faintest smirk from Greatjon.
The conversation drifted after that toward the war itself.
Harry asked many questions, the first about Jaime's death, about the battle under the walls of Riverrun, and even Lord Tywin's movements.
Although he hasn't witnessed the Kingslayer's death, Ned had heard plenty of stories about that day to regale him with the finer details, same with the battle, and even telling him of the last known position of Tywin's battered host at Harrenhal.
He listened carefully to every answer.
Too carefully.
Ned realized quickly that the young knight was not foolish. Beneath the charm and confidence sat a calculating mind trying very hard to understand what shape the realm would take when the war finally ended.
"The kingdoms are breaking apart," Harry said eventually, lowering his voice slightly. "Anyone with eyes can see it now."
"The Iron Throne grows weaker every moon," he continued. "Renly crowns himself in the south. Stannis gathers what strength he can, clinging to his foreign god, and the North declares kings again. Now the Westerlands are also set to burn."
His eyes drifted briefly toward Tundra.
"And everywhere your family rides, the stories grow stranger."
Ned remained quiet.
Harry studied him for another moment before speaking more softly.
"A sickly child cannot hold the Vale together if this war worsens."
There it was.
Not naked ambition.
But close enough.
Greatjon's expression darkened immediately. "Careful, boy."
Harry did not back down. "I meant no insult."
"Aye," Greatjon said. "That's why you chose your words so carefully."
Tension tightened briefly between them before Royce stepped forward.
"Enough," the older lord said. "We're not enemies here."
'Not yet, but hopefully never.' Ned thought.
Harry inclined his head respectfully and stepped back.
But the words lingered.
A sickly child cannot hold the Vale together.
The uncomfortable part was that many here likely agreed.
The court began shortly after.
Or tried to.
Lysa arrived nearly half an hour late with young Robert clinging tightly to her arm while maesters and servants hovered anxiously nearby. Sweetrobin looked worse than before somehow. Pale. Thin. Trembling slightly even while simply walking.
Lysa herself looked exhausted.
Her eyes darted constantly around the hall as if expecting danger from every shadow.
When Tundra shifted beside Ned's chair, Robert gasped loudly and clutched his mother harder.
"The wolf!" the boy cried. "Make it go away!"
Lysa immediately stiffened.
"Keep that beast away from my son!"
The hall went quiet.
Ned remained seated. "Tundra will not harm him."
"You cannot know that!"
"She's calmer than half your guards."
Lysa's face reddened instantly.
Greatjon coughed loudly into his fist to hide his laughter, a failed endeavor, really.
Several Vale lords looked away entirely.
Robert suddenly began shaking violently beside his mother.
The fit came fast.
Maesters rushed forward while Lysa held the boy tightly, glaring at Ned as if he had personally caused it.
"You bring monsters into my hall," she hissed.
Ned stared at her sadly, more than angrily.
This woman had once been Cat's sister.
Now she looked haunted.
The court barely functioned after that.
Minor disputes were heard. Petitions answered. Grain tallies discussed.
But nobody truly cared.
The room's attention kept drifting elsewhere, toward Harry, the Lannisters, and even the North and their war effort, among many other petty issues.
Ned noticed it all.
So did Lord Royce.
That evening, Lord Royce gathered Ned, Greatjon, Artos, and Lord Redfort privately within one of the Eyrie's smaller council chambers.
Wine sat untouched on the table between them.
"Something's wrong," Lord Royce said bluntly once the doors shut.
Greatjon snorted. "Aye. Half this bloody castle's wrong."
"No," Lord Royce said. "Worse."
He looked toward Ned.
"Lady Lysa's losing control."
Ned nodded slowly. "I see it."
"She barely leaves her chambers now except for court. The boy, Robert, worsens by the day. Servants vanish from duty. Guards get replaced suddenly without explanation."
Lord Artos frowned slightly. "You think someone's moving against her?"
Lord Royce hesitated.
"I think the Vale's becoming unstable enough that someone eventually will."
Lord Redfort folded his hands together. "And Harry?"
"Ambitious," Lord Royce admitted. "But not reckless."
Greatjon laughed harshly. "Those two things rarely stay separate for long."
Ned leaned back slowly.
"What do the lords want?"
Lord Royce answered immediately. "Strength. The realm's collapsing, men know it. They want someone who can hold the Bloody Gate if war reaches the mountains."
"And they don't believe Robert can." Ned inquired, despite knowing the answer.
"No," Lord Royce admitted quietly.
Silence followed.
None of them liked speaking the truth aloud.
But it remained true nonetheless.
From the distance out in the halls came a shrill scream.
High and panicked.
Somewhere beyond the chamber.
Everyone rose immediately.
Another scream followed from deeper inside the castle.
"Gods," Lord Redfort muttered.
Ned already had Red Rain in hand by the time they reached the corridor.
Guards ran through the halls in confusion while servants shouted over one another. Tundra bounded beside him, hackles raised.
"Lady Arryn's chambers!" someone yelled.
The corridor outside Lysa's chambers had become chaotic by the time Ned arrived. Guards pushed servants aside while a maester knelt near the doorway, looking pale enough to faint.
Ned shoved through without waiting.
The smell hit first.
Sweet wine.
And something bitter beneath it.
Lysa Arryn lay sprawled beside her bed in a silk nightgown, one hand still clutching a small glass bottle.
Robert Arryn lay beside her.
Still.
Too still.
The boy was… dead.
The room fell silent behind Ned.
Even Greatjon stopped speaking.
Tundra growled low in the back of her throat.
Ned crouched slowly beside the bodies.
Lysa's face looked wrong.
Not peaceful.
Twisted.
Her fingernails were darkened slightly where they clawed at the floorboards.
Poison.
No doubt there.
But something about it felt off immediately.
"She killed the boy," one frightened servant whispered behind them.
"No," another muttered quickly. "Someone else did."
"Silence," Lord Royce snapped.
Harry arrived moments later.
The young knight froze completely upon seeing the bodies, his face contorting into horror at the sight, almost involuntarily.
And Ned knew immediately.
It hadn't been him to poison them, if this wasn't a suicide, that is.
Whatever ambition lived inside the boy, this shock was real. Harry looked genuinely sick as he stared at Robert Arryn's corpse.
"Gods…" he whispered.
One Vale knight stepped forward sharply. "Convenient timing, aye Hardyng, or is it Arryn now?"
Harry turned toward him slowly. "Careful."
"Your name's already being whispered."
"Then whisper louder," Harry snapped back suddenly, anger cutting through his shock. "If I wanted the Eyrie badly enough to murder children, I wouldn't stand here staring at the body like a fool."
The room quieted again.
Ned watched him carefully.
The grief was not deep. Harry barely knew the boy.
But the shock was genuine.
Lord Artos crouched beside Ned near the bodies. "What do you think?"
Ned's eyes moved slowly across the room.
No signs of struggle.
No overturned furniture.
Just poison.
Simple.
Too simple even.
Then his eyes drifted toward the open window overlooking the mountains.
And suddenly a thought came to him.
The Lannisters.
Ned wasn't quite certain, but this surely would've been some kind of opportunity for them, and yet, Ned couldn't help but feel they had no reason to do such a thing, for this act might just push the Vale to join the war on the side of Alaric and the North and Riverlands.
He rose slowly, despite his uncertainty, it would still suit them better to lay the blame upon the Lannisters.
'Who knew a day would come when politicking came to my mind so quickly.' Ned mentally scoffed, steeling himself at the same time.
"The queen's family has used poison before," Ned said loudly enough for the room to hear.
Every eye turned toward him.
Greatjon immediately understood.
Good.
"The Hand, the late Lord Jon Arryn, died suddenly," Ned continued evenly. "Robert Baratheon died soon after."
Lord Royce narrowed his eyes slightly.
Ned pressed on.
"The Vale has remained neutral throughout the war. Convenient for some. Dangerous for others."
"You think the Lannisters did this?" one knight asked.
"I think," Ned said carefully, "that the realm is full of men who profit from chaos."
And suddenly the room shifted.
Fear turned outward.
Not inward.
Exactly where Ned wanted it.
Lord Royce watched him for a long moment.
Then slowly nodded once.
He understood too.
Hours later, the throne room filled once more.
Only now the mood had changed entirely.
Lysa Arryn was dead, with her killer, whether an external foe or even herself, being unclear.
Robert Arryn, the boy-lord of the Vale, lay dead as well, his life snuffed out before he ever had a chance to truly live it out.
The Vale was now left without a ruler.
Lord Royce stepped before the assembled lords first.
"The boy, our lord, Robert Arryn, is gone," he said heavily. "The Falcons Throne of House Arryn passes now to its lawful heir."
All eyes turned toward Harry.
The young knight looked older suddenly.
Not happier than one would expect of a man who seemingly just gained the world.
But instead, he looked burdened, for gaining the world also meant bearing the brunt of the pressure and responsibilities of said station.
A servant approached carrying the falcon-and-moon cloak of House Arryn.
Harry took it slowly.
Then fastened it himself.
"I was born Harrold Hardyng," he said quietly. "But I stand before you now as Harrold Arryn."
The hall remained silent.
Then Greatjon stepped forward.
"The Iron Throne's rotting," he growled. "The lions murder lords and children alike while the realm tears itself apart."
Murmurs spread quickly.
Lord Artos spoke next.
"The North remembers what it was before dragons and southern kings."
Now Lord Royce stepped beside Harry.
"The Vale remembers too."
That changed everything.
Harry looked across the hall, then toward Ned.
And for one brief moment, Ned saw uncertainty disappear from the young man entirely.
"The Baratheon dynasty has failed," Harry declared. "The realm breaks because weak kings allowed it to rot from within while Lannisters poisoned honor and law alike."
Swords slowly began rising around the hall.
"The Vale will no longer kneel to courts ruled by fear and corruption."
More shouting now.
More steel raised.
Harry drew a breath.
Then spoke the words that changed the realm forever.
"I declare the Vale of Arryn free and sovereign once more."
The hall erupted.
"King Harrold!"
"The Vale stands free!"
"For House Arryn!"
Ned stood silently beside Tundra as falcon banners waved overhead and swords pounded against shields hard enough to shake the hall.
Then Lord Royce himself drew his blade and raised it high.
"All hail Harrold Arryn, the Third of His Name, King of Mountain and Vale!"
The roar that answered nearly shook the mountain itself.
And with that roar, the Seven Kingdoms lost yet another Kingdom, and the number of Kings within Westeros rose once again.