Howland Reed walked in from a deeper room in the King's chambers, his faint and grandfatherly smile ever-present on his old and wizened face. "You really should post a few more guards, your grace," he said with a nod to the younger man he called his king. "You're leaving young Edrick here in King's Landing? A fair decision, if a hard one to make. When I warded in Winterfell, it was a strange detachment. Leaving my damp homeland for a great stone keep. I imagine Edrick will feel much the same, if not quite as different."

Howland nodded sagely and glanced down at the floor, his eyes flashing for just a moment as his mind raced. "Forgive me, your grace. I've been in your study for a time. When the guards change shift at midday, you really should have group remaining on watch. That leaves you a good few minutes of vulnerability, and I'm sure that you wouldn't want that. After all, not all men as quiet as me are devoted to the North."

He offered a small scroll, bearing naught but a black wax seal with a lizard-lion emblazoned on it. "Word from my son. The Neck remains unchanged, and it seems that the North does as well. No large group, nor anyone of note, has crossed my home from any point of a fortnight ago and earlier, according to Petyr."

Lord Reed drew his bronze dagger from his belt and stared at the glinting metal. Not as strong as steel, but its beauty was unmatched by any except that of Valyrian make. It would bend and stay, where steel would spring back. But, before long, the bronze would always return to its true smithed form, with some small help. Not unlike us Reeds, Howland thought before his mind stretched back thousands of years before even the Kings of Winter looked south to the Neck. We were kings once. The Marsh Kings. We held Moat Cailin for thousands of years, with only slight help from the Barrowkings, or the Kings of Winter, or the Red Kings. Touched by the Old Gods, they say. The First Among Equals. Perhaps father was destined to be a king. Perhaps my great-great-great-grandchildren will be destined to be the Marsh Kings come again. But House Stark are our lords, and our kings. We swore it by ice and fire.

Howland blinked a few times and sheathed the dirk, rubbing his eyes and breathing softly through his nose. Not in my life. And not in my children's life.

"Yes, your grace. Lord Bolton has the right of it. A spymaster is needed, if undesirable. And, of course, my dear grandson Jon has taken a fancy to Roslin Redwyne. No Southron has approached me personally with a marriage proposal for me and mine of course. We Crannogman are often overlooked by the lords to our north and south."