Maegor's Holdfast. Named for Maegor the Cruel, the third Targaryen king, it was a fortress within a fortress. A massive square keep protected by towering walls and a dry moat filled with a forest of iron spikes. It was a place of secrets; Maegor had famously butchered every mason who built it to ensure its mysteries died with them.
Because the Tower of the Hand had been gutted by a mysterious fire following the death of Jon Arryn, the new Hand, Eddard Stark, had been sequestered here.
Eddard rubbed his temples, the weight of his crown of responsibility pressing down harder than any metal circlet. He had been warned of the future by the boy he called his bastard—his nephew, Aegon Targaryen—yet he found himself a prisoner of the present. When Robert Baratheon had ridden into Winterfell, Ned found that knowing the cliff was coming didn't make the carriage any easier to stop. A king's command for a marriage pact was not a request; it was an ultimatum that any lord in the Seven Kingdoms would grovel to accept.
To protect his blood, Ned had brought Bran and Arya with him. He hoped to keep Bran from the clutches of whatever "Three-Eyed Crow" destiny awaited him, and to keep Arya from the lethal friction of the court. Yet, fate was a stubborn beast. Joffrey Baratheon had already clashed with Arya, and the same bitter scene had played out: the Queen's fury, the Hand's protest, and Robert's weary capitulation to the golden shadow of House Lannister.
Ned had been forced to kill Arya's direwolf, Nymeria, with his own hand. Or rather, he had chosen the wolf's life over the lives of his loyal guards, whom Cersei had demanded be executed. Jon's warning that the wolf would cause chaos in the Riverlands had given Ned the grim justification he needed to act, even if his daughter hadn't spoken to him since.
He sighed, setting aside a stack of parchment. Knowing too much was a slow-acting poison. He had dropped hints to Robert about the golden-haired cuckoldry surrounding him, but the fat king was deaf to anything that wasn't the sound of wine pouring or a woman's laughter.
Ned had brought Maester Luwin from Winterfell specifically to manage his correspondence, using a cipher only Starks knew. He had also sent Ser Rodrik Cassel south in the guise of a merchant, hiring hedge knights in the Riverlands to act as a shadow-guard. If the worst happened, Rodrik was to take the children to Myr to find Jon.
But today, a message had arrived from the "Wolf Pack" in Myr. They hadn't seen the Sea Fox. Worse, Rodrik Snow, the captain of the sellsword company, reported that Myr had no interest in recruiting Westerosi workers—they relied on the cheap, brutal efficiency of slaves.
"I hope the lad is safe," Ned whispered to the empty room.
If Jon was gone, the escape plan was ash. The Vale was Littlefinger's nest. The Stormlands and Dorne were gambles he couldn't afford. To go to Dorne meant crossing the Stepstones—a graveyard for ships and secrets alike.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Come in," Ned called.
The heavy oak door creaked open. A man of Ned's height stepped in. Ned's brow furrowed. It was Jory Cassel, his captain of the guard and one of his most trusted men. Ned had sent him out only minutes ago to find Rodrik Cassel's contact.
"Lord Eddard," the man said. "I would like to speak with you. Alone."
Ned's heart gave a sudden, violent thud. The voice was wrong. The cadence, the tone—it wasn't Jory's.
"Who are you?"
Ned reached for Ice, the ancestral Valyrian steel greatsword leaning against his desk. Its ripples caught the light, a cold promise of execution.
The man in Jory's skin didn't flinch. He pressed a finger to his lips, signaling silence, then pointed toward the fireplace.
"Heward! Wyl!" Ned barked toward the door, his voice steady despite the adrenaline. "Guard the entrance. No one comes in. If the King's men arrive, tell them I am occupied and they must wait."
Once the door was shut, Ned turned back to the imposter. "How do you know about the passages? Who are you?"
"It has been a long time, dear Uncle."
The voice was unmistakably Jon's. Ned's grip on the table relaxed, but his mind recoiled. This was sorcery—the kind of dark art the North remembered in its bones but the South had long forgotten.
"Is this more of the 'Three-Eyed Crow's' trickery?" Ned asked, his voice low.
"Have you forgotten what I told you?" Jon replied, ignoring the question. He gestured again to the hearth.
"I had this room searched," Ned insisted, his face flushing. "Maester Luwin checked every stone. No passages. No hollows."
"Is that so?"
Jon reached into the empty air. His hand seemed to disappear into a ripple of light, and when it returned, it held a slender Valyrian steel blade with a dark hilt and a shimmering red pommel-stone.
"Dark Sister!" Ned gasped. "Where did you find it? It was lost with Bloodraven beyond the Wall. Have you been to the North while you were 'missing'?"
"In a way," Jon said, his tone dry. "But it's this wall you should be worried about."
With a sudden, precise thrust, Jon drove the blade into a specific seam in the masonry near the fireplace.
CRUNCH.
The stone shattered, revealing a hollow void behind the brickwork—a spy-hole. Ned stared at the hole, then at Jon, his face reddening with shame at his own lack of caution.
"How many secrets have you whispered in this room, Uncle?" Jon asked, his voice devoid of judgment but heavy with warning.
"I... I only discussed Rodrik's movements with Maester Luwin," Ned stammered. "And your... Jory's whereabouts."
"Send them away," Jon commanded. "King's Landing is a tomb being prepared. Order them to organize a 'trade mission' to the Stepstones. I've established a stronghold there. I have a contact on Tarth who will guide them. I'll give you the countersigns."
Ned looked at the man who looked like Jory and felt a pang of grief. He had never been raised to be the Lord of Winterfell; that had been Brandon's path. He was a soldier, a man of the field. In this nest of vipers, even his own walls were traitors.