Eddard Stark stands in the chamber with his hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the stained glass window behind the council table. It casts colored light across the stone floor — beautiful, but it cannot hide the cracks in the marble beneath.
Much like this realm.
The small council is already seated when he enters. Lord Petyr Baelish, draped in silk and smirking like he's in on a joke no one else understands. Lord Varys, all powder and perfume, his hands folded politely atop his belly. Grand Maester Pycelle, wheezing into his beard. And Renly Baratheon, the king's youngest brother, fresh-faced and far too amused with everything around him.
They rise — save for Pycelle, who struggles even to shift in his seat — and greet him with words that feel rehearsed.
"Lord Stark," Varys says with a bow, "a most welcome sight in these troubled times."
"You're a long way from the snow and silence of the North," Renly adds with a grin. "We'll try not to bore you."
Ned offers only a tight nod. He's already uneasy. This is a room of courtiers, not leaders.
They settle in, and the meeting begins.
Pycelle unrolls a parchment. "First, the treasury. The crown is in debt—"
"—To House Lannister," Littlefinger cuts in smoothly. "Three million gold dragons, last count. Or was it four? It's hard to keep up when the king throws feasts every week."
"Four million and climbing," Pycelle confirms, voice wheezy. "And the king now demands a tourney. In your honor, Lord Stark. A celebration of your appointment as Hand."
Ned stares at them. "A tourney? When the realm is drowning in debt?"
"It's what Robert wants," Renly says, shrugging. "And what Robert wants—"
"He takes," Ned finishes, grim. "Even if it's blood and bone."
Varys leans forward, soft as a whisper. "It is not just coin that concerns us, Lord Stark. There are... whispers. In the alleys. In the shadows. Of a group rising among the smallfolk."
"A rebellion?" Ned asks sharply.
"Not yet," Varys replies. "But perhaps soon. They call themselves the Sons of Westeros. Born of the dirt, angry and organized."
Renly scoffs. "Peasant rabble. They loot a few grain stores and hang a few hedge knights, and now they fancy themselves kings?"
"They've killed minor lords in the Riverlands and Reach," Littlefinger interjects. "And they're getting bold. Some say they're funded. Armed. Trained."
"By whom?" Ned demands.
"That is the mystery," Varys murmurs. "But their reach grows longer. Their symbol — a broken crown in a clenched fist — was seen painted on a wall in Flea Bottom just yesterday."
"A crown in a fist…" Ned repeats, frowning.
"They feed the hungry, Lord Stark," Varys adds, as if it pains him. "Give bread to beggars. Gold to whores. Justice to those who've never known it. That wins hearts."
"Or breaks them," Pycelle rasps. "If the people rise, it will be chaos. Another Blackfyre Rebellion. Another Dance of Dragons."
"Or something worse," Littlefinger says, eyes flickering toward Ned. "Something Northern."
Ned stiffens. He thinks of the hooded figure in the crowd. Of those sharp eyes.
Darian.
Was it possible?
Would the boy he failed return as the man who undoes them all?
The meeting dissolves into argument — Renly defending the tourney, Pycelle muttering about tradition, Varys offering veiled warnings about the realm's "fragility." But Ned hears none of it.
He hears only the echo of boots in snow. The clang of a training sword. The silence of an empty bed the day the boy vanished.
And now… the whispers.
The Sons of Westeros.
A name sharp as a blade. A symbol too close to truth.
He had come to King's Landing to serve. To protect the king. To find truth in a kingdom built on lies.
But now, he sees it plainly.
The rot starts at the root.
And the root is here, in this chamber of whispers and coin.
Arya Stark POV
Arya hated the Red Keep.
Its halls were too warm, too quiet, too soft. It smelled of perfume and polished stone, not pine and smoke like Winterfell. The guards all wore fancy armor and sneered when she passed. Her sister loved it — called it elegant — but Arya only saw a cage dressed in gold.
That's why she spent her mornings wandering.
This castle, with all its grand rooms and sweeping corridors, had cracks. Places where no lord or lady dared tread. Secret stairways behind tapestries. Old storage passages winding behind the kitchens. Her father didn't know, nor Septa Mordane — and that made it even better.
Today she followed a skinny maid down a narrow flight of steps near the armory. Arya wasn't trying to be sneaky — not really. She just didn't want to go to embroidery lessons. Again.
But then the maid did something strange.
Halfway down the hallway, she paused, looked both ways, then slipped a small piece of parchment from her apron and pressed it behind a loose brick.
Arya blinked, frozen in the shadows.
The girl hurried off.
Heart thudding, Arya crept forward and dug her fingers into the seam. The brick wiggled free with a soft pop, and behind it was the parchment.
She pulled it out.
It was rough. Not like the scrolls her father read. Crude ink stained the surface, but the symbol was unmistakable — a broken crown in a clenched fist.
"Sons of Westeros," she whispered.
She'd heard that name. Whispers from guards. Her father muttering after council meetings. She didn't understand it all, but she knew enough.
People were scared.
She folded the paper quickly and slipped it into her sleeve. Someone might come. Someone might already be watching.
As she left the passage, her thoughts raced. She had found a secret. A real one. Not like Sansa's gossip or Bran's riddles. Something that mattered.
And maybe… just maybe… if she followed it far enough, she'd find answers.
She didn't yet know what the Sons of Westeros were.
But she was about to find out.