A Song of Bards and Maso (Asoiaf/Nier)

[FireWalkWithMe99]

I thought class A(ttacker) androids were obsolete and were replaced by class B(attler)

Click to shrink...

Yea thats true in the automata era thousands of years after this devola and popola. I was thinking Class A in their era would still be relevant.

Thanks! there were cursed ruins in Sothorys,Yeen i think,when notching grow and people vanished if they try to settle there.You could use that,too.
Maybe city of Valyrian convicts,Golgossos i think.But - they were too late,and only used flesh alchemy,so maybe not.

And Hightower was built on some ancient ruins,too

Click to shrink...

Im aware of the various locations that are associated with it. The Isle of toads also features it. Im aware theres other locations just within the scan radius of 1500 miles (which I wanted to be semi reasonable (opposed to just scanning the entiriety of the known world)

The only ones that would fit were the 3 brought up. And honestly even with the isle of toads (which is just off the north western coast of sotoryos I might have underestimated how far away it is. Theres a good map of distance between locations in westeros but not for essos/sotoryos at least as far as I saw.

 

[FireWalkWithMe99]

GENDRY III


Gendry felt at home— the distant crackle of the forge fire outside, the soft ping of cooling metal, and the creak of ancient floorboards beneath his boots. He moved through the dim space, sorting materials with relative ease, almost being akin to breathing by now. The air itself carrying the familiar acrid smell of coal dust and the metallic tang that he felt would forever cling to his skin after this long on the Street of Steel.


Master Mott had tasked him with preparing supplies—bundles of black iron that left dark smudges on his palms, brass rods that caught the fading light in an oddly beautiful way, and scraps of rare metals meant for the Mott's more intricate works. The ones he never lets me see, Gendry thought, his eyes drifting toward the locked door in the corner of the room.


Last week, he'd heard voices behind the heavy door that led to Tobho's private workshop. Whispered conversations in foreign tongues he didn't recognize, accompanied by the soft clink of metal against metal and the occasional scrape of something heavier neither seemed particularly reminiscent of blacksmithing. When he'd asked about it the next morning, the old smith had merely grunted and pointed toward the tool wall, demanding he reorganize it for the second time that month.


He didn't ask again.


Gendry's hands moved methodically now, the rhythm grounding him. Muscles flexed under strain as he hoisted a small crate of brass toward the worktable. The weight was familiar, and he let himself sink into the simplicity of the task. It was honest work—reliable in a way few things in his life had ever been.


Yet the unease lingered. The old smith had always been gruff, but there was an edge to him now, a tautness that hadn't been there before. Gendry shook his head, setting the crate down with a soft thud. None of it was his business. Tobho had given him a place here, taught him a trade, and that was more than anyone else had ever done. He had no right to question the man's secrets.

The floorboards creaked under his boots as he crossed to another pile of materials, His hand hovered over a bundle of thin iron rods, as a sharp knock cut through the routine. Just loud enough to echo amongst the quiet.


Gendry froze, as his eyes were seemingly stuck on the door, though he couldn't really say why. It was just a knock, wasn't it? A Blacksmith of Mott's capabilities got visitors frequently after all. But something about this knock set him on edge.


Behind him, Tobho's quill stilled mid-stroke, leaving an uneven ink on the page. The old smith's head jerked up, his eyes narrowing. He rose from his seat without a word.


Gendry watched as Tobho crossed the room, his boots heavy against the floorboards. There was something in his posture that made the unease he felt intensify. Old man never hesitated. Gendry's hand tightened knuckles white against the smudges of iron and soot on his skin.


The knock came again—slow, deliberate. Tobho's hand hovered over the latch, his fingers curling like he was bracing for a fight. When he finally pulled the door open, Gendry felt the air shift, the room somehow growing colder.


The man who stepped inside was nothing like Gendry had expected. Draped in silks of deep violet and gray, he moved in a manner that seemed out of place yet intentional. His head tilting slightly as he surveyed the room, his expression was warm, but his eyes conveyed a different sentimentality, darting corner to corner as though cataloging every detail.


"Master Mott," the man said, his voice smooth, like the purr of a fattened cat. "What a delight it is to find you at home."


Tobho stood rigid, tightly gripping the handle of the door. "What do you want?"


The man's smile widened, as he stepped further inside with no invitation, his gaze sweeping over the materials on the worktables as his hands clasped lightly behind his back.


"What an impressive home," he remarked, his eyes lingering on the weirwood and ebony door at the far end of the room. "Weirwood and ebony… a most intriguing combination. I dare say I've seen its like before, but not often. Perhaps in Pentos? Or Braavos? Rare craftsmanship, wouldn't you agree?"


Gendry followed the man's gaze, unease prickling at the back of his neck. The door had always seemed out of place to him, its intricate design seeming more fit for a ceremonial sword than a simple door. He learned not to ask too many questions. But, the stranger's interest in it made his hands itch to grab a hammer—for purposes other than welding.


"What lies beyond it, I wonder?" the man continued, his tone light but carried a prybar's weight.


Tobho stepped forward, his broad frame filling the space between the man and the door. "Leave it," he said sharply.


The stranger raised his hands in mock surrender. "Of course, of course. Merely a passing curiosity."


His gaze shifted to Gendry, and for a moment, the room seemed to grow small. "And who might this be?" he asked, seeming genuinely intrigued. "A promising young apprentice, I presume?"


Gendry straightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "I'm just helping out," he said gruffly, his voice rougher than he intended.


The man chuckled softly, the sound equal parts disarming and unsettling. "Just helping out, is it? Oh, I think there's more to you than that."


Gendry's jaw tightened, but he didn't reply. The man's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before returning to Tobho. "It seems you've found yourself a most dedicated apprentice, Master Mott. One wonders what other talents you're fostering here."


Tobho's patience snapped. "If you've no business here, I suggest you leave," he said, his tone like steel.


The man didn't flinch at Tobho's tone. Instead, his smile only deepened. "Ah, but business comes in many forms, does it not?" He turned slightly, his eyes flitting over the room once more, yet again lingering. "Still, I wouldn't want to intrude."


He took a step toward the exit, but paused mid-stride, as though struck by a thought. His gaze slid back to Tobho, something unreadable passing through between their eyes. "Your recent visitors," he began, his tone lighter now, almost casual, "have stirred quite the curiosity. They seem to carry an air of… purpose, wouldn't you say? Strangers to this city, yet their reach extends in ways that leave even long unseen eyes intrigued. Fascinating, isn't it?"


Tobho's grip on the edge of the table tightened, his knuckles going white. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said flatly, though his posture betrayed the tension coiled in his frame.


"Of course," the man replied smoothly, with a hint of mockery in tone. "Merely a passing observation. It's said that a face can hold countless secrets, but even the most skilled craftsmen can't help but leave their mark. Remarkable individuals, indeed. They do leave an impression, perhaps more than they realize."


Gendry's brow furrowed, his unease growing. Visitors? Whoever he had over the other night? He glanced between Tobho and the stranger, trying to piece together the fragments of their exchange.


The man seemed to sense Gendry's confusion and turned his attention back to him, his smile softening into something that almost resembled kindness. "You've done well to stay focused in a place like this," he said.


Gendry bristled, but before he could respond, Tobho stepped forward, placing himself firmly between the two. "Enough," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "If you're done with your riddles, you can see yourself out."


The man chuckled, a soft, lilting sound that carried no real mirth. "As you wish, Master Mott. I've no desire to overstay my welcome." He inclined his head slightly in exaggerated courtesy, and began to walk toward the door.


But just as his hand touched the latch, he turned back one last time, his gaze flicking to the weirwood and ebony door once more. "Do give my regards to your visitors," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sure we'll cross paths again."


The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the workshop in heavy silence. The distant crackle of the forge fire was the only sound that remained.


Gendry exhaled slowly, his chest tight. He glanced at Tobho, whose shoulders were rigid, his fists clenched at his sides.


"Who was that?" Gendry asked, his voice low, tinged with suspicion.


Tobho didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the door, his expression grim. After a long moment, he muttered, "Lock it. And get back to work."

---

It was the hour of the owl, by the time Gendry truly paused his work, wiping sweat with the back of his hand. He glanced up through the myrish glass window. The moon looked almost dented tonight, like someone had taken a hammer to it an odd thought, but one unshaken as he stared at its battered glow.


He leaned against the worktable, arms crossed, his thoughts drifting as he replayed the events of the evening. Tobho had called the servant girl—what was her name again, Ilva? and Alric into his office not long after the stranger left. When they finally emerged hour or so later, Ilva looked about as meek as usual, clutching her shawl tightly around her shoulders, but Alric… Alric looked downright miserable. His shoulders slumped, and his usual stride was replaced with something far more subdued.


Gendry had watched him for a bit, curious but not wanting to pry. After a while, though, he couldn't help himself. He sauntered over to where Alric sat by the forge, poking idly at a pile of scrap metal with the tip of his boot.


"You look like someone nicked your favorite hammer," Gendry said, a teasing lilt in his voice. "What's got you looking so glum, then?"


Alric glanced up, startled, before giving a half-hearted shrug. "Nothing you'd care to hear about."


Gendry snorted. "Don't give me that. If you're gonna sit around sulking, you might as well make it interesting. What is it? Tobho yell at you for botching a rivet? Or was it something Ilva said? She does seem scary, what with all that glaring at the floor she does."


That earned him a faint chuckle, the corners of Alric's mouth twitching upward despite himself. "You're a real arse, you know that?"


"Never said I wasn't," Gendry replied, a grin spreading across his face. "Come on, spit it out. If it's something bad, maybe I can make it worse just to even things out."


Alric rolled his eyes but seemed a little lighter for the banter. "It's nothing," he said again, but his tone was softer now. "Just… long day, that's all."


Satisfied for the moment, Gendry gave him a companionable clap on the shoulder. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. Just don't expect any good advice. I'm rubbish at that."


Alric muttered something about him being hopeless. Gendry just grunted and went back to his bench, letting the quiet of the workshop wash over him.


The forge wasn't like this during the day. Then it was all heat and noise and work that never bloody ended. His hands had the scars to prove it—years of burns and cuts that told their own story. But nights were different. Nights made a man think, even when he didn't want to.


Jon Arryn's face came to him sudden-like. Odd, that. Hadn't thought much about the old lord since he'd died, but there it was. He remembered how strange it felt, having some high lord asking after his mum. She'd been gone so long by then he could barely remember her face. Just bits and pieces really—yellow hair, maybe a smile. But those questions made him dig deep, made him remember things he'd thought the forge had burned away.


Gendry spat into the coals, watching them hiss. Lord Arryn had been different from the other fancy folk who came through. Didn't look at Gendry like he was just another smith's boy. Asked real questions, listened to the answers. Funny how a few conversations with some old lord he barely knew had kept his mum's memory alive, even if it was just scraps and pieces.


He missed the old man, in his way. Not that he'd ever say it out loud—wasn't his place to miss lords. But there it was all the same.


The moon was up now, making the workshop look all strange and silver. Gendry picked up his hammer. Work needed doing, whether he was feeling soft in the head or not.

---

A.N. Well hello im glad to say it hasn't been too long but still i'd like to update this more often. I saw the Wicked movie over break and let me just say its great. I never seen the musical or read the book. Though I enjoyed the movie so much I ended up buying the original 1995 book. Im already a 3rd of the way through and I like the book even more. Just dives into the world and explorers character povs barely touched in the movie. Its quite good and hope the movie inspires some interesting new fanfics.

Doctor Dillamond for ruler of Qarth make it happen SB.

 

[ATP]

Who was visitor? Baelish? somebody else?
I hope that Mott here would not die in stupid canon way.

 

[FireWalkWithMe99]

NED I

Dawns light crept through the Tower of the Hand. In the great hall, Ned sat between his daughters at the massive oak table, its surface scarred by generations of hands across it. The morning air was thick with the rich aroma of warm bread laced with honey, and the spiced tang of sausages. Yet, to Ned, it was a pale echo of the simpler fare of Winterfell, where the chill of the morning sharpened every flavor and he knew the walls like a second skin.


Arya, as ever, was restless, more absorbed by the knife in her hand than the food on her plate. Her eyes darted toward the door, alight with some imagined adventure. She was her mother's daughter in name, but she had Lyanna's wild and unyielding spirit. Ned's chest tightened at the thought, though he allowed himself a faint smile. Sansa, by contrast, was every bit the southron lady, eating with the measured grace of one already imagining her place at court. Her every movement spoke of the queen's influence, and it worried Ned more than he cared to admit.


"Eat, Arya," Ned said, his tone gentle but firm. "You'll need your strength if you plan to outpace Syrio Forel again today."


Arya grinned at the mention of her water dancing lessons. "I'll eat after, Father. Syrio says a warrior should never carry a full belly into a fight."


Ned allowed himself a small smile, though his gaze lingered on her longer than usual. She was growing so quickly, her wild spirit reminding him more of Lyanna with each passing day. "Syrio Forel isn't feeding you," he replied. "And I doubt even he can 'Dance' on an empty stomach."


Across the table, Jory Cassel and Vayon Poole shared a quiet laugh at the exchange. Jory, ever the soldier, devoured his meal with the enthusiasm of a man accustomed to lean days on the road.


"Careful, Jory," Vayon said with a smirk. "If the Hand's daughters see how you eat, they'll think all Northmen are wolves."


Jory shrugged, unbothered by the jab. "Let them. A wolf's better than a sheep any day."


Arya, forgetting her food entirely, brightened. "I'd rather be a wolf too! Sheep just stand around waiting to get eaten."


Sansa sighed, exasperated. "Wolves are savage. Ladies are meant to be gentle."


"Tell that to Nymeria," Arya shot back, her grin widening.


"Enough," Ned said, though the warmth in his voice betrayed his fondness for their bickering. He reached for his cup of watered wine, savoring the brief peace of the morning. For all their differences, his daughters' voices were a welcome reprieve from the weight of his duties. Here, at least, was something untouched by the rot he had begun to sense in King's Landing.


As the meal wound down, Jory leaned closer, his expression turning more serious. "My lord, there's something you should know."


Ned's brow furrowed, his hand stilling on the rim of his cup. "What is it?"


"Lord Baelish has requested an audience," Jory said. "He claims to have information about the ledgers you've been reviewing."


The levity of the morning faded as Ned's mind shifted to Jon Arryn's death and the questions that had plagued him since. He nodded, his voice steady. "Very well. Inform him I'll meet with him shortly."


Jory inclined his head, his earlier humor replaced with quiet professionalism. "As you say, my lord."


Ned rose, his gaze lingering on his daughters for a moment longer. Sansa's composure, Arya's restless energy two sides of the same coin, both precious to him in ways he could never fully articulate. He straightened his shoulders, the weight of Winterfell's wolf sigil seeming lighter compared to the burdens of King's Landing. Yet, it was a weight he bore willingly, for honor demanded it.

---

Ned's boots echoed faintly as he made his way through the corridors. The air inside was cooler than outside, but it carried the faint, familiar scent of the city: sweat, salt, and the faint acrid tang of shit. As they approached Littlefinger's chambers, the guards stationed at the door stepped aside without a word.


The chamber within was richly appointed, though not ostentatious. A fine Dornish rug spread across the floor, and shelves lined the walls, filled with ledgers and documents. Littlefinger himself stood by the window, the early morning light casting sharp angles across his face. He turned as they entered, his ever-present smirk firmly in place.


"Lord Stark," Littlefinger greeted, spreading his arms theatrically. "An early meeting—it seems we are both industrious today."


Ned's eyes narrowed. "You requested this meeting, Lord Baelish. What business couldn't wait?"
Littlefinger's smirk widened, unperturbed. "Ah, yes, the ledgers. Jon Arryn's legacy, or so it seems. A fascinating read, wouldn't you agree?"


Ned ignored the bait, his tone clipped. "You said you had information."


Littlefinger gestured toward the wine on the desk, a clear invitation that Ned didn't take. "Straight to the point, as always. Very well, but please sit. This isn't the sort of conversation to be rushed."

Ned ignored the wine, his gaze steady. "Jon Arryn left records of payments several have caught my attention."


Littlefinger leaned back, swirling his cup lazily. "The name 'Popola'—I assume is one that caught your eye?"


"It did," Ned replied evenly. "What do you know of her?"


"I've heard the name. She's somewhat of a fixture in Flea Bottom these days, not the sort one would expect in that... charming district."


"Explain," Ned said, his voice clipped.


"She and her sister," Littlefinger began, "arrived in King's Landing just under a year ago. Interesting pair, to say the least. Popola is the more industrious of the two, if you can call it that. She's taken it upon herself to tidy up Flea Bottom—a feat most would deem impossible. Odd jobs, rebuilding efforts, even teaching the children there how to read, or so I hear. Admirable, I suppose, if one enjoys rearranging the filth."


"And her sister?" Ned pressed, ignoring the veiled insult.


"Devola." Littlefinger's smile widened. "A minstrel, and quite a talented one. She's performed at several establishments, including one I have... an interest in. A fine voice, though there's something odd about her. Her songs they linger, Lord Stark, in a way almost unnatural. I've heard her songs described as enchanting, though others say unsettling. Much like Flea Bottom itself."


Ned frowned. "You seem to know a great deal about them."


Littlefinger chuckled, spreading his hands in mock innocence.
"Information is my trade, my lord. The twins are fascinating in their way, though I've no doubt their presence here is tied to some scandal or exile. Volantis, perhaps—many whispers trace their origins there. It would explain their... peculiarities. Still, I must admit, Popola has made a temporary improvement of that cesspit. A rare achievement, wouldn't you say?"


"Temporary?" Ned echoed, his tone skeptical.


Littlefinger leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering as if sharing a confidence. "Oh, Flea Bottom never stays clean for long, no matter who tries to tame it. But credit where credit is due—Popola's efforts are earnest, even if the people she employs are less so. Some might even call her naïve." He paused, letting his words settle before adding with a faint smirk, "But then, we both know how often naivety flourishes in this city."



Ned's jaw tightened. "And Jon Arryn's connection to them?"


Littlefinger shrugged, a picture of feigned ignorance. "Who can say? Jon was a man of many interests, though he kept these particular dealings quiet. Perhaps he admired their work. Or their music. Or..." He let the sentence hang provocatively.


Ned's patience thinned. "If you knew of this, why didn't you speak sooner?"


Baelish's smirk faltered briefly, replaced by a fleeting look of feigned offense. "I serve the kingdom, my lord. And I'm serving it now by sharing what I know. Surely you, too, recognize the value of timing."


Ned's thoughts churned as he regarded the man. There was truth in Baelish's words, but not the whole truth. That much was clear. In the North, a man's word was his bond; here, it was a weapon. He had no patience for it, but he would endure it if it meant uncovering the answers Jon Arryn had died for.


"Your insight is noted," Ned said curtly. "But if you know anything more, you'll share it."


"Of course, my lord," Baelish replied, his smile firmly back in place. "Always happy to assist."


As Ned turned to leave, his mind lingered on Jon's notes

---

The streets of King's Landing twisted and turned in ways that Ned Stark still found unnatural, even after weeks of walking them. Narrow and uneven, they forced a man to watch his step or risk losing his footing entirely. Ahead of him, Jory Cassel moved with the ease of a soldier who had spent enough time in cramped places to know how to navigate them. Ned, for all his discomfort, kept his pace steady, his grey cloak trailing lightly across the worn cobblestones.


The midday sun hung low, its light diffused by a hazy sky. The smell of the city pressed in—sour wine, sweat, and the faintest hint of rot. It was the scent of too many people crammed too tightly together. Ned glanced at Jory, a fondness crossing his otherwise stoic features. Jory had been a constant presence at his side for years, as dependable as Winterfell's walls. Yet even Jory, for all his loyalty, could not make this place feel any less foreign.


"King's Landing feels larger every time I step out," Jory said, his voice low as they passed a pair of merchants haggling in the street.


"It isn't," Ned replied, his tone edged with dry practicality. "The walls don't move. The people are the ones who've changed."


Jory offered a small nod, though his expression showed little agreement. The knight's eyes darted warily across the buildings lining the street. Even here, away from the Red Keep, the city's politics weighed heavy. It had been months since Jon Arryn's death, but the rumors and whispers clung to the air like smoke.


His chest tightened at the thought of Jon. The man had been a father to him when he had no one, a steady hand that had shaped him into the lord he had become. His death was like a splinter buried deep in Ned's mind even as the city whispered treachery around every corner.


As they approached Flea Bottom, the streets grew narrower, the walls pressing in like the coils of some great beast. Robert had often spoken of this district as the city's underbelly—a cesspit of thieves and beggars. Yet what greeted Ned was unexpected. The alleys lacked the filth he had braced himself for; wooden patches covered gaps in the walls, and the air, though still heavy, carried a faint sense of order. It wasn't clean—not by Northern standards—but it was less wretched than he expected given the reputation the area held even back before the rebellion.


Jory raised a brow. "This is Flea Bottom?"


"That's what they call it," Ned said, his voice calm but laced with skepticism. Something about this place felt... wrong. Or perhaps less wrong than it should have. He kept his thoughts to himself, his sharp eyes scanning the lane ahead.


Ned had asked a few locals about the woman he sought, careful not to draw too much attention. The responses had been mixed, as all things in King's Landing were.


"The coming of the Mother and Maiden the sisters are," one old man had said reverently, "carrying the wisdom of the Crone in their songs."


Others were less kind. "Harlots in all but presentation," Ned recalled one man sneering. Another, more fervent, had whispered warnings of their red tinged in hair. "No doubt in league with the Volantenes and their strange red religion," someone had muttered darkly.


At that, Ned had smirked faintly, glancing at Jory. "You hear that, Jory? Red hair's a sign of dangerous allegiances now. Should I be questioning my wife's loyalties?"


Jory barked a short laugh, his usual stoicism cracking for a moment. "Lady Catelyn might not take kindly to that, my lord. I'd tread lightly if I were you."


"Wise counsel," Ned replied, his tone dry. "I'll spare myself the wrath of the Tullys—for now."


The jest was brief,. Even so, Ned's thoughts quickly returned to the matter at hand, as not all voices were steeped in distrust or bizarre reverence. "She hires a lot of folk 'round here," a man leaning against a patched wall had remarked. "Odd jobs mostly—hauling wood, patching holes, cleaning out muck from the drains. Ain't the funnest work, but she pays better than most. And she checks in, you know? Makes sure you're not slaving yourself half to death."


A nearby woman, her hands caked in mortar, had nodded in agreement. "That's true. Had me scrubbing down old carts for near half a day. But every hour, she'd come by. Told me to rest my arms, asked if I was holding up alright. Not the kind of thing you hear from most employers."


"Still don't get why she bothers with some of her directions," the man had added with a shrug. "Told us to clear rubble from a street no one use said it'd make things easier for the kids to run through without cutting their feet. Seemed a waste of time to me, but…" He'd trailed off, glancing down the clean, cobblestone street they stood on. "Can't deny this corner of the city's different these days. Lot better, I say."


Then there were the more outlandish claims. A drunkard in the tavern rushed up to them, slurring about how he'd seen the two appear out of thin air in a flash of purple light. The same drunk had confused Jory for Ned more than once, which left Ned skeptical of anything the man said. Still, the sheer variety of tales made it difficult to discern what might hold a kernel of truth.


One shopkeeper, at least, had spoken with a measured tone, though even her words carried a trace of gossip. "I like them well enough," she'd said, adjusting her wares. "But I reckon they're exiles from Volantis. Don't know what those foreigners get up to, but I hear they're an exclusive lot."


Ned frowned, his jaw tightening as he reflected on the contradictions. Were they the kind-hearted maidens the faithful whispered of? Foreign manipulators playing at some hidden game? Or something worse still?


It was then that he heard it—a faint strain of music drifting on the air. A single note, then another, vocals and strums weaving into a melody that was neither joyous nor mournful. The sound hung in the spaces between distant voices, filling the cracks with a haunting resonance.


Jory slowed, his head tilting slightly. "Do you hear that?" he asked.


Ned nodded. He couldn't place the tune—it was unfamiliar, both the melody and the language being sung—but something about it stirred an unease he couldn't name. His hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword, fingers brushing the cold steel out of habit more than fear.


The melody grew clearer as they walked, each step pulling them closer to its source. Jory's usually alert posture seemed to slacken, his hand falling momentarily from the pommel of his sword. Ned furrowed his brow, his own steps slowing as the tune wove through the labyrinthine streets, beckoning them.


"Jory," Ned murmured sternly, "keep your eyes sharp."


The melody grew clearer as they walked, each step pulling them closer to its source. The music softened, and Ned's gaze finally landed on the source. A woman with striking red hair sat on the low stone wall, her curls cascading over her shoulders like firelit waves. She wasn't dressed as a noble, but neither did she wear the rags common to the cities poor. A muted red scarf wrapped around her shoulders, its frayed edges speaking of long journeys. Her plain tunic and trousers, though unadorned, were of surprisingly fine quality. There was a precision to her movements that struck Ned as peculiar—deliberate, unassuming, yet utterly captivating. Every pluck of her lute instrument seemed measured, like the precise steps of a swordsman in the practice yard.


A shrill voice cut through the moment. "Devola!" Ned looked over to see a small girl racing between people in the crowd. She was around eight, with messy dark curls and a dirt smudged face, but her expression showed that pure, simple happiness that only children can feel when they see someone they love.


The minstrel sister—Devola looked up at the child with a smile so warm it momentarily softened the melancholic tune she played. She let the last note hang in the air before letting the lute rest in her lap.


"Back again, Mara?" Devola asked, her voice carrying a gentle, lilting tone that matched the cadence of her music. She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from the girl's face. "You've been listening, haven't you?"


The girl nodded enthusiastically, her eyes wide. "I heard you from the other side of the market! Can you play the song about the soaring falcon again? It's my favorite!"


Devola chuckled softly, the sound carrying a hint of sorrow. "It is, isn't it? But you shouldn't have run barefoot through the streets. Look at your feet—scraped and dirty." She took the girl's hands in her own, inspecting them as though they were Valyrian steel. "What am I to do with you, little one?"


Mara shrugged, her grin undeterred. "Play another song? Please? Just one more."


Before Devola could respond, her gaze shifted, meeting Ned's for the first time. Her blue eyes were sharp, like someone who had grown accustomed to the scrutiny of strangers. The smile she wore for the child didn't fade entirely, but there was a subtle change—an awareness that tightened her posture and cooled the warmth in her expression.


"I'm afraid I have company," she said gently, her attention returning to Mara. The girl's face fell, her excitement dimming as she glanced toward Ned and Jory.


"Is it about something bad?" Mara asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You don't have to go, do you?"


Devola's smile softened, as she brushed the girl's cheek with one hand. "Nothing bad, little one. Just grown-up talk. But I'll tell you what, if you wait here for a little while, I'll play your favorite song before the sun sets. Deal?"


Mara's disappointment melted into a tentative smile. "Promise?"


"Promise," Devola replied, brushing her thumb lightly over the girl's cheek. "Now run along grab some shoes from the Septa. And try to stay out of trouble, hmm?"


The child hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Ned and Jory with wide eyes before skipping off down the street, her bare feet kicking up small puffs of dust.


As Devola turned her full attention to Ned, her expression shifted again. The warmth she had shown the child lingered in her features, but there was a sadness in her, he couldn't discern.


"Lord Stark," she said, inclining her head. Her voice carried a calm strength, but Ned could sense the careful control behind her words. "What brings the Hand of the King to Flea Bottom?"


Ned studied her in silence for a moment, noting the way she held herself—poised. Though the sadness in her eyes struck him more deeply than he cared to admit, though he could not say why.


His expression hardened slightly, a reminder of the weight of his duty. "I am seeking the truth, Miss Devola, for the sake of the realm and in respect to Jon Arryn's memory."


Devola's expression didn't waver, but there was a flash of pain perhaps, or hesitation. "I knew him," she said softly. "Though I doubt I could tell you anything you don't already know."


Ned's gaze remained steady. "That remains to be seen."


She set her instrument aside with deliberate care, rising to her feet in a fluid motion. Ned watched her closely, noting the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way she seemed to weigh each moment.


"You've taken Jon Arryn's place in full then?" Devola's tone carried challenge, yet her expression was open. "Do you intend to continue his legacy of aid?."


"I have," Ned replied, voice deepening, recognizing the depth of her question. "It's my duty to serve the realm, and protect those who are often overlooked."


There was a pause, Devola's gaze unwavering as she measured his sincerity. Finally, she sighed, the façade of levity dropping. "Very well. Jon promised to work with us; one of the few nobles who seemed to genuinely care for the city and its smallfolk. But even he proved lacking."


Ned's expression tightened, his mind bothered over the implication of her words. "How did you come to know him?"


A shadow passed briefly across her expression, though her voice remained steady. "By chance, truly. My sister and I had only just arrived in King's Landing. We got lost that first day, wandering streets. A city watchman suggested I perform at a local tavern to earn some coin and make my name known. It seemed like sound advice at the time."


Her lips quirked in a faint, self-deprecating smile. "The performance went well enough. The patrons were warm to my music, Jon Arryn himself was there. At the time, I didn't know who he was. Not understanding the weight the name carried."


Ned listened in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze steady. There was a heaviness in her tone, a quiet depth to her words that hinted at more. He waited, knowing the unspoken often revealed the most.


"On the way back to sister," she continued, her voice losing its earlier edge, "I was followed. A few members of the City Watch who'd been at the tavern decided I'd make for easy prey. Their intent…" She hesitated, her gaze dropping briefly to the ground below. "It was clear."


Ned's jaw tightened, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword. "What happened?"


"Jon Arryn intervened," Devola said, her composure returning as she met his gaze again. "He came upon us at the right moment, scattering them before they could… before things could go further. He gave me a silver stag for my troubles."


She folded her hands in front of her, her posture as steady as her voice. "It was a wake-up call, Lord Stark. This city… it isn't kind to newcomers, no matter their talents."


Ned nodded solemnly, his thoughts turning inward. The tale she told was not surprising, yet it stirred a familiar anger in him. The 'honorless' City Watch, sworn to protect, instead becoming a tool of the very predation they swore to defend against.


"Jon Arryn did what the City Watch should have done," Ned said at last, his voice edged with quiet anger. "Instead, those who wear the gold cloaks use their power to prey on the very people they are sworn to defend."


Devola regarded him with a thoughtful expression. "Not all of them," she said. "But yes, Lord Stark. Corruption here seems a stubborn thing."


Ned's gaze turned downward to the cobblestones beneath his feet, worn smooth by countless footsteps. "It troubles me deeply," he admitted after a pause. "The behavior you describe dishonors the oaths these men take." My duty is to uncover the truth, wherever it leads, and to ensure that such acts do not go unpunished."


"This city challenges everyone, the less fortunate especially" Devola proclaimed, her tone carrying a hint of weariness. "Jon Arryn attempted reforms, but his achievements were far from enough in truth."


Devola's gaze was earnest as she added "I hope you prove more diligent, Lord Stark."


Ned looked back at her, feeling a tenseness in his troat. "Jon Arryn had some dealings with your sister," he said, his tone queiter now. "Enough to make note of it in his records. Do you know why?"


Devola's lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze momentarily drifting. "Jon asked my sister to create a book for his son, Robin. Unfortunately Popola is at the Street of Steel now gathering supplies for reconstruction here. She's the one who could answer your questions better than I."


Ned nodded, his resolve firming. "I will seek her out. Thank you for your candor, Devola. And for sharing your story."


Devola gave him a faint smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. Her gaze lingered on him, as though debating whether to say more. Finally, she drew a steady breath. "There's more you should know."


Ned tilted his head, waiting.


"Before his death, Lord Arryn was looking after… certain children. Bastards of the king." Her tone was even, but her gaze sharpened, watching his reaction closely.


Ned listened intently, his stance easing as he recognized her earnestness. "Did he confide in you about his investigations?"


"Somewhat," Devola admitted, glancing around cautiously before continuing. "He worried about the children's safety and well being."


"That concern died with him," Ned noted grimly.


Devola nodded, a flash of anger crossing her features momentarily. "Yes and the kings leave shortly after did not help, and now it seems to have passed to you. If you speak true."


The pieces were falling into place—Jon Arryn's interest in Robert's illegitimate offspring, the whispers in the Red Keep, the peculiar urgency that had marked his final months. Ned's own inquiries had been steering him toward this same truth, but hearing it confirmed by Devola made the matter feel heavier, more immediate.


"There are Two, specifically, that I know of," Devola continued, her voice softening. "A baby girl, Barra, who resides in Chataya's Brothel the child of a friend, and a boy in Flea Bottom. Jon Arryn ensured they were cared for, and protected. In his own way."


"A brothel," Ned mused aloud, his tone reflective again wondering about the child. "I met Barra recently while investigating some of Arryn's other inquiries."


Devola's lips curved faintly, though not in amusement. "Jon Arryn visited her often not as a customer, but as… a guardian of sorts."


Ned absorbed this in silence, his thoughts shifting to the boy she mentioned. "And the boy?"


Devola hesitated. "He's young. No more than a year. He lives among the orphans in Flea Bottom. I… I can take you to him if you wish."


Ned regarded her steadily, weighing the offer. Finally, he nodded. "Lead the way."

---

The streets of Flea Bottom narrowed as Devola guided Ned and Jory through its varied alleys. The familiar stench of waste and unwashed bodies stuck but there were pockets of surprising cleanliness; clear paths, patched walls, small gardens flourishing in discarded crates. Devola walked with purpose, offering a brief nod to those she passed, her presence met with murmured greetings and troubled glances at him and Jory


When they reached the orphanage, Ned paused, taking in the sight. The building was a modest structure, its walls reinforced with fresh timber and its roof patched with new thatch. Children of varying ages played in the yard, their laughter leaking through. A septon and a septa of the seven stood nearby.


Devola stepped forward, and the reaction was immediate. The children ran to her, many bouncing as they said her name. She knelt to meet some ruffling hair and answering their rapid-fire questions with an easy warmth that softened her features. It was then the septon approached, with a smile on his face.


"Devola," he said, inclining his head. "Twice in one day you grace us with your presence."


Devola rose, kind smile on her visage "Septon Wildon I've brought a visitor," she said, gesturing to Ned. "This is Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King."


The septon's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly bowed. "An honor, my lord."


Ned returned the gesture with a nod, his attention shifting to the children again. Their laughter continued unabated.

---

Not long later Devola had, a swaddled baby boy nestled in her arms.


"This is him," Devola said softly. "In truth Jon only knew of him for a month before his death but still he quickly ensured he had food, shelter, and occasionally sent toys and blankets for him ."


Ned stepped closer, his gaze softening as he looked at the child. The boy's tiny fists flailed slightly, his dark hair sticking up in tufts. He was smaller than Ned had expected, but there was a healthy pinkness to his cheeks.


"His name?" Ned asked.


"Dormon," the septa said, her voice warm. "The mother chose it before her death during the birth."


Ned rested a hand lightly on the edge of the crib, his gaze steady but his thoughts restless. A bastard child, unclaimed by his father yet protected by Jon Arryn's care.


"Your thoughts, mi' lord?" Jory asked, stepping beside him.


Ned glanced at him, then shifted his gaze to Devola, who stood a few paces ahead. "It's easy to take things as they appear, Jory," he said quietly. "Harder to trust what lies beneath."


Jory's expression remained neutral, though his eyes glanced toward devola and the child. "She seems genuine."


"She does," Ned admitted, his voice low. "But sincerity in the south is often a mask, and I've learned not to take anyone's motives for granted."


He cast one last look at the orphanage, at the children playing in the yard. Their laughter echoed through the narrow streets, a rare sound of innocence in a city so heavy with rot.


And yet, Ned's instincts held firm. He had seen enough of this city to know that even the purest gestures could be rooted in shadowed intentions.


As they left the orphanage, Devola fell into step beside him. Her expression had shifted, the warmth she had shown the children replaced by something quieter. Her gaze momentarily drifting toward the sky before returning to Ned.


Ned's sharp gaze didn't waver. He caught the subtle shift in her expression, the way her eyes shifted. Whatever she was holding back, he said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch.


Devola exhaled quietly, as if surrendering to some internal debate. "I did have one question, Lord Stark," she said at last, her voice carefully measured. "It's about Lord Arryn's son."


Ned inclined his head slightly, signaling her to continue.


"I was told by a friend in the City Watch that Robin Arryn was missing," she began, her words deliberate. "Later, he assured me the matter had been resolved, though he didn't know the details. Is the boy truly safe?"


For a moment, Ned considered the question, weighing how much to reveal. There was genuine concern in her voice, not the hollow pleasantries so common in King's Landing. And yet, her connection to Jon Arryn and this city's labyrinthine secrets made him cautious. Still, he decided the truth—at least most of it—would do no harm.


"Robin Arryn is safe," he said, his voice even. "Before his death, Jon Arryn arranged for his son to be fostered at Dragonstone, under the care of Lord Stannis Baratheon. Some… were not informed of the arrangement, which caused confusion in the days following Jon's passing. That confusion led to the rumors you heard."


Devola's lips parted slightly, her expression one of faint surprise, though she quickly masked it. "Dragonstone," she repeated, almost to herself. "That's fairly secluded and about as far from his homeland you can get."


Ned nodded, his gaze steady. "It was Jon's decision. He believed it would strengthen the boy, prepare him for the responsibilities he will one day inherit."


"And you believe it was the right choice?"


Ned hesitated, the question stirring thoughts he had tried to suppress. He could not think of Robin Arryn without thinking of his mother, Lysa. She was his good-sister by marriage, but the years had made her a stranger to him. He recalled her in Winterfell as a young girl, teary-eyed and shy, before she had become the Lady of the Eyrie. If rumor was to be believed woman she had become was… harder to reconcile. She clung to Robin as fiercely as any mother would, but there was something unbalanced in her devotion, a protectiveness that bordered on smothering.


Jon Arryn's choice to foster the boy at Dragonstone made sense, given that protectiveness. Perhaps Jon had seen the cracks in her devotion, the way it threatened to stifle the boy instead of nurture him. And yet, the secrecy of it the decision to keep Lysa in the dark nagged at Ned. It was unlike the man he had known, whose honor had been a guiding star even in the darkest of times. Had Jon been forced to make compromises in his final days, much like Robert? Had the weight of King's Landing changed him, too?


But today's revelations painted a different picture. Jon Arryn's choices may have been painful, but they were rooted in duty and love, not weakness. That brought Ned a measure of comfort, though it did little to ease his own doubts.


"I believe Jon Arryn acted out of love and duty for his son," he said at last, his voice steady. "Whether it was the right choice… only time will tell."


Devola's expression calmed. "He was a good man," she said softly, almost to herself. "Better than most in this city. It's a comfort to know his son is safe and and he is being cared for at least."


Ned inclined his head. "Jon Arryn's wishes will be honored, as they should be."


Devola's gaze shifted for a moment, her fingers tightening slightly before she stilled them. She seemed to still wrestle with something unsaid, but when she looked back at Ned, her expression was composed. "Thank you, Lord Stark," she said, her tone quiet but steady. "For answering my question."


Ned nodded, though he didn't move immediately. He studied her in silence, noting the hesitation that had briefly flickered across her face. He had seen that look before the struggle of someone weighing whether to speak the whole truth. It was a look he knew well, one he often carried himself.


The revelations flea bottom brought lingered in Ned's mind as he made his way back to the Red Keep.

---

As Ned made his way back to his chambers, the cool shadows of the Red Keep's vast corridors offered little solace from his troubled thoughts.


Upon opening the door, Ned was met by a visibly perturbed Septa Mordane, who stood just inside. The sight of Sansa sitting by the window, seemingly absorbed in her embroidery, added a touch of normalcy that belied the tension in the air.


"My lord," Septa Mordane started, her voice tight with worry. "It's Arya—she's not been seen since this morning."


Ned's focus sharpened instantly, his concern for his younger daughter cutting through the political webs of King's Landing. "What do you mean, gone?" he demanded, stepping quickly into the room.

"The guards have been searching, my lord," Sansa piped up, her tone indifferent, her eyes not lifting from her work. "She probably lost track of time or wandered off somewhere, as usual."


Despite Sansa's dismissive words, the worry in Septa Mordane's eyes told Ned this was no ordinary disappearance. "Where have you looked?" he asked, directing his gaze towards the septa.


"Everywhere, Lord Stark," the septa replied. "We've checked her usual places; the training grounds, the kennels. Master Forel hasn't seen her since their last lesson."


A chill of dread ran through Ned. Arya's adventurous spirit was boundless, and the Red Keep was filled with too many dangers for a young girl alone. "Seal the gates," he ordered one of his guards. "No one leaves until Arya is found."


The guard nodded and hurried out. Ned then addressed Septa Mordane with stern authority. "Organize the servants. I want them to search every part of the castle no nook is to go unchecked."


Sansa finally looked up, annoyance flickering across her features. "Surely she's just playing one of her games, Father. She'll turn up when she's hungry," she said, her voice carrying a hint of the contempt she often held for Arya's less ladylike behavior.


Ned met his older daughter's gaze, his expression softening slightly. "Perhaps, but we must be sure. Stay here with Septa Mordane. I'll send guards to watch over you until we know it's safe."


Sansa nodded, her attention already returning to her needlework, the threads weaving under her fingers far less tangled than the thoughts in Ned's mind.

---

A.N. This chapter marks our first POV after the prologue, taking place during Ned's early investigation in King's Landing. While I considered including a Robert scene I wrote, I've saved those for later chapters where they'll fit better.

Some readers suggested having Bran avoid his fall and come to King's Landing. However, I decided to keep the pre-King's Landing events largely unchanged atleast when it comes to Starks/Robert/The Lannsiters , as altering them would significantly impact my planned storylines for Bran, Arya, Sansa, and the Lannisters. While Devola and Popola have influenced King's Landing, their presence only caused minor ripples before Ned's arrival (mainly rumors about the mysterious 'Volantene' bard).

For upcoming chapters, I'll be exploring both the setting and new characters in Ned's group and others more deeply. Though Ned remains a central POV with his own story arc, I want to spotlight some of his less-featured companions as well. Next chapter will return to one of the twins, and you can expect a few new POV characters throughout this arc.

Quick update on my writing schedule: I need to focus on my LOST and Elden Ring stories first, but if I make good progress here, there might be another chapter this month.

 

[Noxious]

Lol did Arya follow her dad hoping for adventure and found it in Devola and Popola.

Or is there a sinister maso related incident, hmmm. I'm not laughing if it's the latter.

 

[ATP]

Lol did Arya follow her dad hoping for adventure and found it in Devola and Popola.

Or is there a sinister maso related incident, hmmm. I'm not laughing if it's the latter.

Click to shrink...

She probably just lost herself in dungeons,just like in canon.Finding accidentally way to leave Red Keep,which saved her when Lannisters miped out Starks.
I do not think,that our girls would change anytching here.