Daveth Baratheon is the eldest son of King Robert I Baratheon and Queen Cersei Lannister, the only one of four children she bore her lawful husband.
A natural-born prodigy, his intellect and swordsmanship skills are among one of the best despite hi...
Eddard Stark was preparing to head into his chambers when Grand Maester Pycelle handed him a scroll, telling him a raven arrived from Winterfell this morning. He had a momentary look on his face when Petyr Baelish appeared in front of him.
"Good news? Perhaps you'd like to share it with your wife."
"What game are you playing, Littlefinger?" Eddard asks, clearly in no mood. "My wife is in Winterfell."
"Is she?" Petyr's grey-green eyes glittered with amusement, motioning the Hand of the King to follow him.
Eddard followed warily, wondering if this day would ever end. He had no taste for these intrigues, but he was beginning to realize that they were meat and mead to a man like Littlefinger. Finally Baelish drew rein in front of a ramshackle building, three stories, timbered, its windows bright with lamplight in the gathering dusk. The sounds of music and raucous laughter drifted out and floated over the water. Beside the door swung an ornate oil lamp on a heavy chain, with a globe of leaded red glass.
Petyr had led Eddard to the entrance of his brothel in one of the city's busiest streets. "I thought that she'd be safest in here," he explains. "One of several such establishments I own."
*SLAM!*
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It was the final insult. Eddard, not so keen on the idea, spun Littlefinger around and slammed him against the wall, his hand wrapping tightly around Petyr's throat. "You're a funny man, hmm?" he said in a cold fury as he strangles Petyr. "A very funny man."
"Ned!" an urgent voice calls out to him from above.
Eddard looks up and notices Catelyn looking down at him from a window; then, suddenly, the recognition coming to him. He was hopelessly confused, but released his grip on Littlefinger's throat and made his way inside.
"The Starks... Quick tempers, slow minds."
They went inside, through a crowded common room where a fat woman was singing bawdy songs while pretty young girls in linen shifts and wisps of colored silk pressed themselves against their lovers and dandled on their laps. No one paid Ned the least bit of attention
Inside, Catelyn was waiting. She cried out when she saw him, ran to him, and embraced him fiercely. "I feared you'd never come," she hugged Eddard. "Petyr has been bringing me reports. He told me of your troubles with Arya and the young prince. How are my girls?"
"Both in mourning, and full of anger," he told her. "Cat, I don't understand. What are you doing in King's Landing? What's happened? You've been hurt. Gods. Those are deep cuts... a gash from a sword or... how did this happen?" Eddard asked his wife.
Catelyn slid a dagger out from under her cloak and placed it in his hand. "We have proof. We have the blade."
"Which Lord Tyrion will say was stolen from him," Petyr suggests. "The only man who could say otherwise has no throat, thanks to your boy's wolf."
