Game of Thrones Iron Stark

The Kingswood was bright and loud with birdsong. Robert Baratheon rode at the head of the hunting party, already half-drunk and grinning like a boy. Lords and knights in fine hunting leathers followed, spears and bows ready. Ned Stark's direwolf ranged ahead, flushing game with every mile.

They had already taken two stags, half a dozen boar, and more rabbits than anyone cared to count. Most of the kills had come because of the wolf.

Robert clapped a heavy hand on Ned's shoulder, nearly knocking him from the saddle. "Why haven't you brought down a boar yet, Ned? The damn things are everywhere. We should rename this place Boar Wood!"

Ned didn't answer. He was watching the trees.

A white-cloaked Kingsguard rode up fast. "Your Grace! We found a shadowcat. It's gone to ground in a cave."

Robert's eyes lit up. "A shadowcat? Here? Fuck the deer. Let's go catch ourselves a lion instead."

Ned kept his horse close behind the king. "Are you planning to gift it to Lord Tywin, Your Grace? Or perhaps the queen? Or Prince Joffrey?"

Robert laughed so hard he almost dropped his wineskin. "We'll decide after we've got the bastard. Come on!"

He spurred forward. Ned followed without another word.

---

Jon Snow found the Tower of the Hand almost empty. Only Sansa was there, dressed in riding leathers and a light breastplate, a practice sword leaning against the wall beside her. She looked nothing like the girl who used to sew and dream of songs.

When she saw him she went still.

"Jon? What are you doing in King's Landing?"

"I came with the Watch," he said. Then he glanced at her armor. "Sansa… what happened to you?"

She didn't smile. "Mother went back to Winterfell. She's handling Rickon's affairs."

Jon frowned. "Rickon? What do you mean, handling his affairs?"

Sansa's voice dropped. "He's dead, Jon."

For a second Jon thought he had misheard. Then the floor seemed to tilt. He dropped to his knees so hard the stone cracked under him.

"Dead? How—when—?"

Sansa knelt in front of him and gripped his shoulders. Her eyes were dry but red-rimmed.

"Someone sent a Faceless Man. He died in the great hall. We still don't know who paid for it."

Jon stayed on his knees long after she stopped speaking. The black cloak felt heavier than it ever had at the Wall.

---

Tony met Coben near the old warehouse district. Behind the maester stood a silent line of figures wrapped in black from head to toe. Only their eyes showed through narrow slits.

Tony's jaw tightened. "Coben, these men are dangerous. King's Landing has over six hundred thousand people. If the greyscale spreads here—"

"They've been modified," Coben said calmly. "As long as no one rubs skin against skin for long periods, they're safe. We came for Willas Tyrell. Let's see if we can fix his legs before we worry about the rest of the city."

Tony found an abandoned warehouse, cleared it, and left the Stone Men inside with strict orders to stay put. Then he and Coben rode for Highgarden's manse in the city.

Olenna Tyrell received them in the solar with Margaery at her side. Willas sat in his wheeled chair, calm as always.

Tony and Coben bowed. "My lady."

Olenna studied Coben for a long moment. "You're the one without a chain. I've heard stories."

Tony spoke before Coben could answer. "He's the best surgeon the Citadel ever produced. I'll stake the honor of House Stark on it."

Olenna's eyes narrowed, then she nodded once. "Very well. Fix my grandson. Whatever you need, Margaery will provide."

They took Willas into a prepared room. Tony gave him strong milk of the poppy mixed with something stronger. Once he was under, they worked fast and clean. Dead muscle and ruined nerves came out. Bone fragments were removed. Healthy tissue was taken from Willas's back and thighs and grafted into place. Before they closed the wounds, Tony poured a measure of red liquid and a measure of blue across the incisions.

Coben watched the liquids fizz and seal. "Every time I see those two potions I want to cut you open and see how your brain works."

Tony laughed under his breath. "Read every book in the Citadel. Then read the ones they keep locked away. The rest is inspiration. Maybe the gods got tired of watching me fail and gave me a push."

Outside the room, Olenna poured wine for her granddaughter.

"He's not Eddard's son by blood," she said, "but with that mind and those hands he'll accomplish more than most lords ever dream. If you want him, I can have your father speak to Eddard."

Margaery looked down at her cup. "Myrcella wants him. So does Sansa. And Shireen. If the king commands it for his daughter, no one can refuse."

Olenna smiled the thin, sharp smile that had earned her the name Queen of Thorns.

"I was not your grandfather's first choice either. I took what I wanted anyway. There are ways, girl. Learn them."

---

By the time Robert and the hunting party returned, the sun was low and the wagons were heavy with game. Robert had taken the most kills. Tywin Lannister was a close second. Petyr Baelish had managed only three rabbits and looked like he wanted to throw them into the fire.

A great feast was already being prepared. Robert intended to drink and boast until the small hours.

While the hunters feasted, Stannis finished the first day of the great melee. One hundred and twenty-eight men had survived the chaos. The final fighter to advance drew the loudest cheers.

He wore white armor chased with delicate golden feathers that looked almost alive when he moved. A blue cloak hung from his shoulders. His shield bore a pair of white wings. When he lifted his visor, half the ladies in the stands sighed.

They called him the Knight of a Hundred Birds.

He looked like a prettier, deadlier version of Loras Tyrell, and every unmarried girl in King's Landing seemed determined to claim him before the tourney ended.

Handkerchiefs and flower crowns rained onto the field. The new knight caught one, pressed it to his lips, and bowed toward the royal box with a smile that made even Cersei raise an eyebrow.

In the space of a single afternoon, the Knight of a Hundred Birds had become the most talked-about man in the city.

Robert, deep in his cups, simply laughed and slammed his cup on the table.

"Let the pretty birds dance. Tomorrow the real blood starts."