The Force of the North-Chapter 131: The Wolf Departs

The pale light of dawn had barely broken over the horizon, casting a grey, misty veil over the waters of Blackwater Bay. The docks of King’s Landing were strangely quiet, cleared of the usual crush of merchants and sailors by the heavy presence of the royal guard.

Moored at the end of the stone pier was Winter’s Fury. Its Ironwood timber creaked softly against the tide, the grey direwolf banner snapping sharply in the brisk morning wind, ready for the long voyage up the eastern coast to White Harbor.

Eddard Stark stood at the base of the gangplank, the heavy fur of his cloak pulled tight against the coastal chill. Beside him stood King Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King.

Jon Arryn leaned heavily on a polished walking stick, his aged face drawn tight against the morning cold.

"The Wisdoms of the Guild have been spoken to," Jon said quietly, his voice carrying only to Ned and the King. "The jars of the green fire are being packed in damp sand as we speak. I secured two sturdy, deep-hulled cogs for the voyage. They will sail directly up the coast to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. It is safer than the bumpy ruts of the Kingsroad, provided the captains avoid the autumn storms."

Ned gave a firm, approving nod. "Ensure the captains and guardsmen understand the danger, Jon. A single heavy crash against a reef or a careless drop could turn the entire ship to ash. Eastwatch will hold the jars until I give the order to move them to the central keeps of the Wall."

"They will not fail," Jon promised softly.

"The fleets will gather quickly," Robert said, his massive hands resting on his belt. "Stannis is already tearing the docks apart, counting the pitch and arrows. I’ll let the horse-lords taste the salt water, Ned. I will drown them all."

"Crush the Dothraki, Robert," Ned said, his grey eyes locked onto his friend’s. "And when the Narrow Sea is quiet, bring your hammer to the North."

Robert nodded firmly. But a shadow of concern crossed the King’s brow. "And what of the Spider’s plot? The Blackfyre boy in Essos and the Golden Company? Should I not send men to root them out before they use the chaos to cross the water?"

"Do not waste your men or your gold chasing shadows in the Disputed Lands," Ned instructed calmly. "Sellswords fight for gold and warm lands; they will not sail into a freezing winter while the Dothraki hold the sea. Leave the Golden Company to sit in the dust. I will send you a message if they turn their eyes toward the Seven Kingdoms. For now, the true war is in the snow."

Robert let out a heavy breath, his broad shoulders settling. "Aye. One war at a time."

The King reached out, pulling Ned into a sudden, crushing embrace. The strength in Robert’s arms was immense, the grip of a brother who finally understood the weight they both carried.

"Take care, Ned," Robert murmured fiercely. "Hold the line. Do not let those frozen bastards take my kingdom before I get there to smash them."

"I will hold the Wall, Your Grace," Ned replied, clapping the King firmly on the back.

Ned pulled away, giving a final, respectful nod to Jon Arryn. He turned and walked up the heavy wooden gangplank. He did not look back at the towering red stones of the capital. As his boots hit the deck of Winter’s Lance, the Northern captain barked a sharp command. The mooring lines were cast off, the heavy oars pushed against the pier, and the great sails unfurled, catching the morning wind.

Ned walked to the prow of the ship, resting his calloused hand on the cold, damp wood of the rail. As the foul, perfumed stench of the capital faded into the crisp, salty bite of the sea, he let out a long breath. The treacherous courtly games of the South were finally behind him. He rested his hand on his sword belt. The honest, brutal war of the North was waiting.

High in the Tower of the Hand, the quiet discipline of the morning was shattered by the sound of breaking glass.

Lysa Arryn stood in the center of her rich bedchambers, her face flushed a blotchy, uneven red. Her chest heaved with frantic, ragged breaths. She had just hurled a heavy silver hand mirror across the room, shattering it against the stone wall.

Standing near the door, a young serving maid trembled violently, clutching a linen basket to her chest as if it were a shield.

"A lie!" Lysa shrieked, her voice shrill and crazed. She grabbed a porcelain washbasin from a side table and threw it to the floor, the pottery shattering into dozens of sharp shards. "You speak treason! Who paid you to say such things?!"

"M-my lady, I swear it by the Mother!" the maid wept, dropping to her knees. "The whole keep knows! The Northern lord cut his fingers on the King’s table! The Gold Cloaks dragged Lord Baelish to the black cells. They say he is to be tried for stealing the King’s gold!"

In the next chamber, the door left slightly ajar, young Robert Arryn sat huddled beneath his heavy quilts. The frail, sickly boy clutched his blankets to his chin, his large eyes wide with terror as he listened to his own mother’s madness echo through the stone walls.

Lysa pressed her hands to the sides of her head, her pale blue eyes wide with pure, blind terror. 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

Petyr. Her sweet Petyr. The only man who had ever truly loved her. The man she had protected, the man she had convinced her aging husband to bring to court and elevate to power.

Jon Arryn had said nothing to her. Her husband had returned to their chambers late in the night, silent and grim, and had gone to sleep without uttering a single word about the slaughter in the council room. He had kept it from her, knowing full well of her friendship with the Master of Coin.

"They took him," Lysa muttered to herself, her frantic pacing resuming. She tangled her fingers in her auburn hair, pulling at the strands. "The savage wolf took him. Jon let him do it! My husband stood by and let the Northman butcher Petyr!"

Her mind, long plagued by dark fears and fragile wits, began to unravel completely. If Eddard Stark had discovered Petyr’s gold, what else had he discovered? Did the wolf know of her secret letters? Did he know the true depths of her loyalty to Baelish?

"I must see him," Lysa whispered frantically, moving toward her heavy oak wardrobe. "I must go to the dungeons. I must command the guards to release him!"

She grabbed a heavy cloak, her hands shaking so badly she could barely fasten the clasp. She did not care about the gold. She did not care about the realm or the whispers of walking dead men. In her mind, the only truth in the world was Petyr Baelish, and the cruel, heartless men of the court were trying to take him from her.

She marched toward the heavy wooden door, her hand reaching for the iron latch.

Before her fingers could touch the metal, the door swung inward.

Jon Arryn stood in the doorway, flanked by two heavily armored guards from the Vale. The Hand of the King looked at the shattered porcelain, the weeping maid, and his frantic, wild-eyed wife.

"Jon!" Lysa cried, stepping forward. "You must tell the guards to release Petyr! The Northman has lost his mind, he—"

"Silence, Lysa," Jon commanded, his voice devoid of its usual tired gentleness. It was the hard, unyielding voice of the Lord of the Eyrie.

Lysa stopped, taken aback by the coldness in his eyes.

"Petyr Baelish is a traitor, a thief, and a poisoner of this realm," Jon stated flatly, the shame of his own blindness finally hardening his spine. "He will rot in the black cells until the King decides his end."

"You cannot let them hurt him!" Lysa shrieked, stepping toward her husband. "I am your wife! I demand—"

"You will demand nothing," Jon cut her off, stepping fully into the room. He looked at the two Valemen behind him. "My wife is unwell. The shadow of the coming war has taken a toll on her mind. She is not to leave these chambers under any circumstances. Post guards at the door and beneath her window. No one enters, and no messages leave without my direct command."

"Jon, no!" Lysa wailed, falling to her knees as the heavy door began to close.

"Stay with our son, Lysa," Jon said coldly. The heavy oak door slammed shut, the iron bolt sliding firmly into place, sealing the Lady of the Eyrie inside her gilded cage.

Two levels down, in the rich royal quarters, a very different kind of fit was unfolding.

"I will not go!" Crown Prince Joffrey shrieked, his voice cracking with the high, sharp pitch of a spoiled child.

He stood in the center of his sitting room, his face twisted in an ugly scowl. He kicked a heavy wooden chair, knocking it over with a loud clatter. "I am the heir to the Iron Throne! I am a prince! I will not be sent to sit on some dreary rock in the west like a banished squire!"

Queen Cersei stood near the hearth, her own face pale and tight with suppressed rage. She moved toward her son, reaching out to smooth his golden hair, her maternal instinct fighting a losing battle against the cold reality of their fate.

"Joffrey, my sweet," Cersei said, her voice trembling slightly. "It is not a banishment. It is a wardship. Your grandfather merely wishes to instruct you—"

"I don’t care what he wishes!" Joffrey yelled, slapping his mother’s hand away. "I want to stay here! I want to watch the tourneys! I want to command the Guards to strike people! Father cannot send me away! Tell him, Mother! Tell Father I refuse to go!"

In the shadowed corner of the room, Sandor Clegane stood perfectly still. The Hound’s burned face remained unreadable, but his good eye looked upon the weeping Crown Prince with absolute, undisguised disgust. The boy was whining about striking people while the rest of the realm prepared for war. Even his own sworn shield despised his sniveling weakness.

"The King has already spoken," a cold, heavy voice echoed from the doorway.

Joffrey froze. Cersei flinched, turning toward the heavy wooden doors.

Tywin Lannister stepped into the room. He did not wear his armor, but the sheer, suffocating weight of his presence made the grand chamber feel instantly smaller. He looked at the overturned chair, then at the flushed, weeping face of his grandson.

Tywin’s pale green eyes held absolute contempt.

"You are carrying on like a baseborn child denied a sweet," Tywin stated, his voice a low, lethal rumble that commanded immediate silence.

Joffrey swallowed hard, trying to muster his usual arrogance, but the Old Lion’s gaze pinned him in place. "Grandfather... I am the Crown Prince. I belong in the capital."

"You belong where I say you belong," Tywin corrected, closing the distance between them with slow, measured steps. "You shamed our bloodline in the Great Hall. You wept and soiled yourself before the lords of the Realm. You proved to the entire realm that you are soft, weak, and entirely unready to rule."

Cersei stepped forward, her maternal fury flaring. "Father, do not speak to him like—"

Tywin did not even look at her. He simply raised a single, gloved hand, cutting her off instantly.

He stopped directly in front of Joffrey, looking down at the trembling boy.

"You leave for Casterly Rock in four days," Tywin declared, laying down the absolute law of their House. "You will not bring your velvet cloaks. You will not bring your flatterers or your mother’s pets. You will learn to hold a sword without trembling, and you will learn the harsh cost of survival. You will learn to be a lion, Joffrey. Or you will freeze in the coming winter like a beaten dog. The choice is yours."

Tywin held the boy’s terrified gaze for a long moment, ensuring the utter finality of the command was understood. Then, without another word to the weeping prince or his furious daughter, the Lord of Casterly Rock turned and swept from the room, leaving the shattered pride of the Crown Prince in tatters on the floor.