Inside the Tower of the Hand, Eddard's residence, Sansa and Arya's first sight of Catelyn's corpse drew an incredulous gasp before they quickly threw themselves onto her still-frozen body and began to wail in grief.
Eddard watched this scene with heartache, stepping forward to stroke their heads and resting his chin against their foreheads in an attempt to comfort their profoundly sorrowful souls.
Though he had also just lost his wife, compared to two young daughters, how could an adult's grief compare to that of children losing their mother?
"What on earth happened, Father?"
Nestled in Eddard's embrace, Sansa found the cruel reality hard to accept, even though she had heard some rumors the day before.
She wept like pear blossoms in the rain, never imagining that her gentle and brave mother would leave her so abruptly.
"I... I don't know!"
Eddard held his two daughters, feeling helpless; although he was eighty to ninety percent certain that The Imp had killed Catelyn, he currently couldn't find a shred of evidence.
"If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. If you cannot do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die." — This was Eddard's principle of judgment as a lord.
For an Eddard who strictly adhered to honor and impartiality, he could not fully convince himself to sentence someone to death without conclusive evidence.
Moreover... glancing at Sansa, who was sobbing uncontrollably in his arms, Eddard sighed softly, eventually cupping her Face and speaking with a very serious expression:
"I heard you've been getting close to Arsath of House Lannister lately, Sansa."
Hearing her father say this, Sansa's azure eyes blinked, unsure of what he wanted to say, but she felt an ominous sensation in her heart.
"I want you to stay away from him, alright?"
"Could it be!!!"
Crying out in disbelief, Sansa never thought her mother's death could be related to that incredibly handsome youth.
"Is it that Gold Cloaks commander?"
"Did he kill Mother?"
While Sansa was still immersed in shock, the much younger Arya beside her loudly questioned Eddard.
"It wasn't him; currently, we only suspect his dwarf brother."
"I'm going to kill him!"
With the fire of hatred flickering in her eyes, the impulsive girl quickly drew the thin sword named Needle that Jon had given her and ran out at a trot.
Eddard had no time to stop her; he wanted to get up but remembered he still had a daughter in his arms, and at this moment, Sansa was already as still as a wooden chicken, staring blankly at Catelyn's corpse without any movement or expression.
"Ser Jory..."
Gently patting his daughter's back to soothe her wounded soul, Eddard turned to look at the guard standing nearby with his sword and commanded in a pleading tone:
"Please go and bring Arya back quickly, and whatever you do, don't let her do anything out of line."
"Also, have someone write a letter to be sent back to Winterfell by raven. Tell Robb and the others the situation here and tell them not to make any major moves for now, not until everything comes to light."
Left with no other choice, Eddard knew King's Landing was no longer safe. He had arranged for Jory Cassel to take his two daughters out of the city yesterday, hoping to return them safely to the North.
But the Gold Cloaks had refused their request to leave the city on the grounds that they had not received orders from Arsath.
In a King's Landing controlled by four thousand Gold Cloaks, Eddard Stark, the lord of winterfell and warden of the north, felt a deep sense of powerlessness for the first time in his life.
Upon receiving the order, Jory Cassel immediately left with loyal haste, though before stepping out the door, he cast a lingering, sorrowful look at the deceased Catelyn... "Please wait a moment longer, Arsath."
The Red Keep.
Arsath sat in his council chamber, surrounded by Lancel, Jeyne, and a circle of Lannister confidants.
A helpless Kevan sat below Arsath, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the faint sweat from his head. This Old Lion, who had been Tywin's deputy for decades, actually appeared slightly nervous.
He glanced slightly at the youth beside him, who was nearly fifteen years old, the astonishment in his heart almost beyond words.
When he last came to King's Landing, this future lord of casterly rock had only used tactics and wisdom to play the game against him, but today, the pressure Arsath gave him was even stronger than when facing Tywin!
In the words of his son Lancel, one was an aging and reserved old lion king, while the other was a young, valiant, and aggressive new lion king!
"It's nearly noon, and everyone is busy with the defense of King's Landing. I'll wait for him for ten more minutes at most."
Sitting boldly in the primary seat, Arsath's face bore an expression of clear impatience.
Beside him, Lancel very considerately refilled his hot tea.
Seeing his son's attentive behavior, Kevan, who had been worried about whether he could get along well with Arsath, felt relieved.
Even as Tywin's brother, Tywin never let Kevan pour water for him or move his food at will.
After all, in such a large Family, no one could guarantee whether the other person harbored ulterior motives and might tamper with the food or drink.
Lancel's current performance was enough to prove that Arsath trusted him completely.
It seemed this branch of their family could remain in the position of deputy to the warden of the west for at least another generation.
"My Lord, he's here."
As time slowly ticked by and Arsath was about to order the meeting adjourned, a Gold Cloaks guard opened the council chamber door, revealing Stafford's slightly desolate figure standing outside.
"Let him in."
His tone carried obvious displeasure, but for the sake of Davon's Face, Arsath decided to give him a chance.
Stafford scrambled into the council chamber. Seeing the room full of Lannisters with no seat left for him, and knowing he was in the wrong for being late, he could only stand awkwardly before everyone, momentarily at a loss.
That's right, this fellow had gotten cocky again.
Carrying the orders Tywin had given him, Stafford and Kevan had set out overnight for King's Landing, arriving last night.
But when he learned from Lancel that his son Davon had become Arsath's most trusted confidant and had been sent out on a very important mission, he once again lost his sense of place.
Though he had always looked down on Arsath in his heart, Tywin's attitude was already clear: as long as Jaime had no intention of changing his mind, the youth before him would inevitably be the future warden of the west.
So Stafford had happily spent the night carousing on Silk Street, even shamelessly charging the bill to his son Davon.
"My dear Uncle Stafford."
Rhythmically tapping his knuckles on the table, Arsath faced Stafford with a smile, though his cold tone exerted immense pressure:
"I think you're well aware that there was a very important meeting this morning."
"I need a reason."
"My... my horse died!"
Looking at the youth seated in the primary position, Stafford broke into a cold sweat just as Kevan had. Though he had seen Arsath at Casterly Rock, the boy had always seemed kind and gentle; Stafford had never felt such a terrifying Aura from him.
To excuse himself, he could only frantically search his mind for a pretext:
"My horse came all the way from the Westerlands, and this morning it died of exhaustion from the long journey."
"Oh?"
"Your horse died of exhaustion?"
Hearing this ridiculous answer, the smile on Arsath's face seemed to deepen, but his tone grew even harsher as he questioned him:
"What kind of horse were you riding?"
"It was... it was a Harlaw pony from the Iron Islands..."
"Hahaha~"
Stafford's answer immediately drew a burst of laughter from everyone present. After all, for a Lannister to ride such a cheap Harlaw pony from the Iron Islands was truly a loss of Face.
However, Stafford was actually telling the truth. Ever since Tywin had confiscated all the income from his lands, the castle's expenses had left this spendthrift fellow unable to make ends meet.
Last week, in order not to lose the Lannister Face, the man had actually sold his fine steed to pay off the debts he owed to prostitutes in Casterly Rock.
Once the laughter died down, Arsath slowly stood up, his cold tone laced with a hint of irritation:
"Look at you. As a Lannister, to ride such an inferior horse."
He then looked around the room, a trace of disdain in his eyes:
"We all ride high-blooded warhorses from the Westerlands, or sand steeds born in the Dornish desert."
"You ride a Harlaw pony; no wonder it died."
"You ride a Harlaw pony, so you have no right to attend this meeting."
Arsath's words once again provoked laughter from the crowd, and even the stern Kevan had a hard-to-repress smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
But he also knew that since Arsath had vented his anger in public, this lucky fellow would likely keep his life.
Stafford stood there helplessly, looking at the laughing Lannisters and offering an incredibly awkward smile of his own.
"Alright, down to business."
Arsath reached out and tapped the table. Everyone immediately ceased their laughter and sat upright, waiting to hear his orders. The hall became instantly silent, as if the previous noise had been a mere illusion.
"You should all be clear on Tywin's plan. Having Stafford go out to take the blame—personally, I don't think there's any problem with that."
"But this time, I don't intend to follow his plan."
Sitting proudly in the primary seat, watching the young Lannister knights cast their burning gazes upon him, Arsath lightly clenched his right fist:
"King's Landing, the North—I want them all!"
..."Hey, Little girl, what are you doing with that weapon?"
Outside the original site of the Gold Cloaks Headquarters, Syrio was idly instructing Gendry on his hammer technique.
He marveled at how fast this fellow, as strong as a bull, was progressing. He feared it wouldn't be long before he, who was not proficient in heavy weapons like hammers, would no longer be able to teach him.
Just then, a thin Little girl ran in, a long steel one-handed shortsword in her left hand. She was constantly shouting terms like 'dwarf,' mixed with some unintelligible Northern dialect that seemed to be curses.
"I'm looking for that Lannister dwarf! He killed my mother, and I'm going to kill him for revenge!"
At only nine years old, Arya was already showing a hint of the Stark style. Her gaze was fierce, and her sharp canine teeth were bared like a bloodthirsty wolf cub.
"Are you... the Stark girl?"
The news that Tyrion was suspected of killing the Lady of Winterfell had already spread through King's Landing like wildfire. The observant Syrio immediately guessed her identity.
As a former first sword, he disdained attacking women or children. Just as he was thinking of catching Arya and sending her back to Eddard's residence, the armored Jory Cassel rushed over from a distance.
"Arya, come back with me!"
Jory Cassel reached out to grab Arya's shoulder, but the little brat was incredibly nimble, slipping through his legs.
"I won't! I'm going to kill that dwarf!"
Arya cursed while dodging Jory's attempts to catch her with exceptional agility. This greatly surprised Syrio, as her nimble footwork perfectly matched the steps of a Water Dancer.
However, she was only nine after all, and before long, Arya was caught by Jory and tucked under his arm.
Casting a disdainful glance at Gendry, who stood there dazed and had even forgotten to swing his hammer, Syrio turned back to look at Arya as she was carried away by the silent Jory, and he suddenly felt a spark of interest in her talent.
"Hey, Little girl of House Stark."
"If you want revenge, come find me here in the dead of night. I will teach you the strongest swordplay in the world!"
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