Chapter Text
In the original story, Arya had stumbled upon this secret conversation in the tunnels beneath the Red Keep, overheard the secrets about the Targaryens and the Dothraki.
And one of those speakers was none other than Varys, who had been confiding secrets to Eddard just that very morning.
The Red Keep's Master of Whisperers. Lord Varys the Spider. A man of no faction. A man who served only peace. He believed the Baratheon reign was fundamentally unstable, that the Targaryens would sooner or later reclaim the Iron Throne. So he worked quietly to accelerate that process, feeding a steady stream of King's Landing intelligence to the Targaryen siblings across the Narrow Sea, letting them build their strength, waiting for the right moment to cross the waters and return.
Peace was the goal. The means never mattered.
To that end, he didn't mind letting the Targaryens take back the Iron Throne. Didn't mind borrowing a foreign army to restore order. Even if tens of thousands had to die on the road to peace.
"This information is critical, Arya." Aven's voice was low.
He turned and looked at Eddard.
"Uncle, this means there are Targaryen eyes inside the Red Keep. Eyes from across the Narrow Sea."
Eddard's expression changed.
That look — the weary, familiar there you go again — vanished. What replaced it was something harder. Quieter. More serious.
His fingers stopped their tapping and went still on the armrest. His grey eyes, the same grey as Aven's, fixed on his nephew and waited for the advisor to finish what he'd left unsaid.
"Uncle." Aven's voice dropped lower still. He stepped to the desk, planted both hands on the edge, leaned in slightly, and pitched his voice so only Eddard could hear. "Watch for poison. At least that much of what the Spider said has merit. Every piece of food needs to be checked from here on out."
He held Eddard's gaze.
"As for the rest — haven't we already worked it out? The Spider, Littlefinger, it doesn't matter which. They both want you walking Lord Arryn's road. Stir your curiosity. Let you dig into secrets. Let the secrets kill you."
Eddard's fingers went still on the armrest. His lips pressed into a line, thin and pale, like a cut left by a blade. His breathing grew heavier. Not anger. Something worse than anger. That sick, hollow feeling of realizing you're someone else's piece on the board.
He remembered Varys's face as he spoke those words. The mask of I'm only doing what's best for you. The casual, offhand I merely thought you should know. That smile, the one that said I'll leave you to figure out the rest.
And Littlefinger's visit on that first night.
Trap after trap. Each one waiting patiently for him to step in.
"I know." His voice came out barely above a murmur, low enough that Arya at the door almost certainly couldn't hear. "The schemes in this place make me sick."
Aven shook his head once, quietly, and said nothing more.
Eddard Stark was a true son of the North. Battlefield slaughter, force of arms, decisions made by the edge of a sword, these were his domain. But intrigue and politics were different ground, and here he still needed someone to remind him where the traps were and whose words could not be trusted.
The good news was that he had always been willing to listen.
A servant pushed open the door and stood at the threshold, head bowed, voice kept soft, the voice of someone afraid to disturb the air.
"Lord Stark. His Grace summons you to the Small Council."
Eddard rose. He straightened his collar. He pinned the Hand's brooch in place. His movements were slow and deliberate, the same careful attention he gave to polishing Ice, not a man performing a task, but a man buying himself time. He walked to the door and stopped. He didn't look back.
"Aven. Look after them."
Then he was gone. His footsteps moved down the corridor and faded, step by step, until there was nothing left.
Aven stood where he was and looked at the closed door.
Then he glanced at Arya. She was still catching her breath, hair still loose, dust still smudged across her face. The bruise on her knee had deepened to a dark purple. But her eyes were bright, bright as two stones freshly pulled from a river. She didn't fully understand what she'd overheard. She knew, though, that she'd done something that mattered.
"Arya." Aven's voice was softer now. He crouched down to her eye level. "You did well. Go wash your face and change your clothes. Don't leave the Tower of the Hand until your father returns."
Arya nodded and ran. Her footsteps faded down the corridor, lighter and lighter, like a cat moving across stone.
Aven straightened and walked to the window. He looked out at the grey, overcast sky.
Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself.
...
The moment Eddard stepped out of the Tower of the Hand, the corridor wind hit him full in the face, salt-sharp with the smell of Blackwater Bay, threaded through with the faint, lingering noise of the tourney grounds.
He walked fast. Boots struck stone in a steady, muffled rhythm. Arya's discovery. Aven's words. They kept turning in his head, one over the other.
He had a feeling he wouldn't be staying in King's Landing much longer. He didn't like it here. He was beginning to hate the very air. This city stank.
The council chamber was in the eastern wing of the Red Keep, not far from the Tower of the Hand. Eddard had walked this path every day since arriving. Today the walk felt different. There were fewer torches in the corridor than usual. The light was thinner. The shadows on the walls sat darker and heavier. Wind caught his cloak and sent it snapping behind him like a grey banner.
The chamber doors were open. When Eddard walked in, his first thought was that it was too quiet.
Usually, when Robert skipped the Small Council, the councillors at least talked before things got started. Littlefinger would tell a joke. Pycelle would cough twice and begin making a show of sorting his documents.
Not today. Every man at the long table had his head down, eyes on the tabletop, or the sky through the window, or the cup of wine that had long since gone cold in front of him.
No one spoke. The air felt drained, as if half of it had been quietly removed. Even breathing felt like effort.
Robert occupied the oak chair at the head of the table, legs spread wide, one hand draped over the armrest, the other wrapped around a goblet. His face was red, not a healthy red, but the kind that pushed up through the skin from somewhere underneath, wine-dark and wrong.
He was drunk again.
Eddard moved to the far end of the long table. He had barely begun to sit when Robert's voice came down like a hammer.
"That bastard across the Narrow Sea is pregnant!"