Game of Thrones Iron Stark

King's Landing was bursting at the seams. The greatest tourney the realm had ever seen was set to begin that afternoon, yet Tony Stark stood frozen in the Tower of the Hand, staring at Sansa like she had just told him she planned to marry a dragon.

"You entered the lists?"

Sansa nodded, clutching his arm and giving it a hopeful little shake. Her lower lip pushed out in that way that usually got her whatever she wanted.

"I did. Tony, you have to help me win. I want to stand beside Myrcella when she's crowned champion. Please?"

Tony rubbed his temples. "Sansa… do you understand what you just signed up for? Only two women entered this entire tourney. One is Brienne of Tarth. The other is you."

"I know. Brienne told me." Sansa's eyes stayed bright. "That's why I need your help. You're the smartest person I know. If anyone can make sure I win, it's you."

Tony was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out three small circular cards. Each one bore the stylized head of a running direwolf, faint lines of wind curling around the image like living breath.

Sansa's eyes went wide. "What are those?"

"Running Wolf Sigils," Tony said. "I made them with my own blood and old magic. Stark blood carries the blood of the First Men. The old man always said it was wolf blood—fast, fierce, and hard to kill. These cards wake that up."

"What do they do?"

"They make you faster. In a fight, speed beats almost everything. Strength breaks bones. Speed breaks armies."

Sansa turned the cards over in her hands. "How do I use them?"

"Stick one to the sole of each foot. The third is a spare."

Without hesitation, Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, yanked off her boots, then her stockings. Her bare feet were pale and delicate against the dark floor. She looked up at him expectantly.

Tony cleared his throat. "Sansa. You're in King's Landing, not Winterfell. A lady might want to keep her shoes on when she's alone with a man."

Sansa grinned. "The lady went hunting with the queen. Father took them both. King Robert wanted fresh boar for the feast. He really does love killing pigs, doesn't he?"

She pressed the cards to the arches of her feet. The moment they touched skin they seemed to melt into her, leaving only faint gray marks that looked like old tattoos.

Sansa stood, took one experimental step, then another.

Then she vanished.

A second later a tremendous crash shook the room. Tony turned to find Sansa flat on her back in the doorway, one boot still in her hand, a rapidly swelling lump already forming on her forehead.

He sighed, scooped her up, and laid her on the bed.

"Jenny—Mordane! Get in here! Sansa's knocked herself out. Bring hot water and clean cloths!"

From the bed Sansa let out a weak, dazed laugh, one eye already starting to purple.

"You always did say I had a hard head…"

---

By midday the city had swelled past six hundred thousand souls. Thousands of knights had poured in—landed knights, hedge knights, and more than a few men whose names would never be spoken aloud. The Gold Cloaks were stretched thin. Hidden blades moved through the crowds like sharks.

The tourney grounds had been expanded twice already. This afternoon the real blood would start. A massive melee would thin the field to the final one hundred and twenty-eight. Only then would the one-on-one bouts begin in front of the king, the high lords, and every lady in the realm.

At the Blackwater docks a heavy ship flying no banners eased into port. Dozens of men in black cloaks and black mail stepped onto the quay. They moved like a single organism.

Jon Snow squinted against the southern sun. "Seven hells, it's hot. I'm tempted to take this damn cloak off."

Alliser Thorne didn't even glance at him. "We are the Night's Watch. We do not take off the black. Not here. Not anywhere."

Two brothers carried heavy wooden cases—one long and narrow, one perfectly square. Whatever was inside had been wrapped and warded so thoroughly that even the dockworkers gave them a wide berth.

Thorne jerked his chin toward the city. "You lot go find an inn. I'm going to speak with an old friend. Janos Slynt still commands the Gold Cloaks. He owes me a favor or two."

Jon hesitated. "Ser… my father is Hand of the King. I could ask him to arrange an audience with Robert."

Thorne's mouth twisted. "You took the black, Snow. The sooner you forget your father's name, the longer you'll live. I won't have deserters in my ranging party."

Samwell Tarly stepped forward quickly. "Ser Alliser, even if we cannot see the king… surely we could speak with Lord Tony? He already knows what we brought."

Thorne studied them both for a long moment, then gave a short, reluctant nod.

"Fine. Snow, take Tarly and go to the Tower of the Hand. See if Eddard Stark will vouch for us. But remember—you are a brother of the Watch first. Always."

Jon and Sam hurried off before he could change his mind.

Thorne watched them go, then turned toward the Gold Cloak barracks. He had no interest in seeing Robert Baratheon again. The man had sent him to the Wall once already. Once was enough.

---

Another ship had docked farther down the river, this one flying the colors of Oldtown. A lean man in maester's robes stepped onto the quay. Behind him walked a silent column of figures wrapped head to toe in black cloth and leather. Gloves. Boots. Veils across their faces. Not a single inch of skin showed.

Coben smiled at the city like a man returning to a favorite brothel.

"King's Landing," he said cheerfully. "Let's see what kind of trouble Tony Stark has gotten himself into this time. Save lives? Remake lives? Both, probably."

One of the veiled figures shifted slightly. The movement was too smooth, too heavy for a normal man.

Coben patted the nearest shoulder without looking. "Easy. You'll get your chance to stretch those new bones soon enough."

---

On the same tide, a third ship slipped into port. This one flew the flag of Braavos.

A single man walked down the gangplank. He wore a simple traveler's cloak and carried no visible weapons, yet the dockworkers and sailors gave him room without knowing why. His eyes were the color of old coins, and when he smiled at the city it did not reach them.

He breathed in the stink of King's Landing and let it out slowly.

Then he began to walk.

Somewhere in the twisting alleys a girl with a stolen face was waiting to be found. Or perhaps she was the one who would do the finding.

Either way, the Many-Faced God had business in the capital.