The Blackwater Rush originated in the rugged hills of the Westerlands, snaked through the Stone Sept of the Riverlands, and crossed the Golden Road before spilling south of King's Landing into the vast, churning Blackwater Bay. Although the autumn air was growing sharper by the hour, the rhythmic shouts of fishermen hawking their morning catch still echoed outside the Mud Gate. People possessed a high tolerance for shifting political winds; as long as they didn't perish beneath a sword, they had to strive for their bread. To the smallfolk, the war of kings was a storm above their heads, loud, dangerous, but ultimately distant from the business of survival.
A magnificent war-galley was docked at the royal pier, its hull painted a shimmering silver-white. Warriors in polished plate armor, armed with longswords and battle-axes, patrolled the deck with a discipline that made the remaining Gold Cloaks look like street urchins.
Inside the captain's cabin, the atmosphere was as heavy as lead.
Stannis Baratheon sat stiffly in a high-backed chair. He wore a grey wool overcoat beneath a dark red cloak, with a plain black leather belt cinching his waist. From it hung a longsword and a dagger, no jewels, no gilding. Only the flame-shaped crown of red gold upon his brow, shimmering with an orange-red glow in the lamplight, betrayed his status. He kept his lips tightly sealed, his deep blue eyes fixed on the young man sitting opposite him.
Eddard Karstark, dressed in a black robe embroidered with a golden sun, was all smiles. "Lord Stannis, it is a rare pleasure to meet you. I have prepared a gift to mark this occasion."
Karas Snow stepped forward, placing a simple wooden box on the table. When opened, it revealed a thick, leather-bound volume.
"This was provided by Archmaester Pycelle," Eddard said, his tone softening. "It details the progression of greyscale and records several ancient texts regarding its treatment. If you find the time, you might consider sending an envoy to the Citadel; they may have made some recent discoveries that could... benefit your house."
Stannis's icy expression flickered, the rigid line of his jaw softening for a fraction of a second. His relationship with his wife was a cold, distant thing, but his love for his daughter, Shireen, was the only heat left in his soul.
"Thank you," Stannis said, his voice a dry rasp.
The man beside him, Davos Seaworth, wearing his old green cloak with the onion-ship sigil stepped forward to take the box. He offered Eddard a small, respectful nod of gratitude.
"You said in your letter that you intended to return King's Landing to me," Stannis began, his words losing none of their characteristic bluntness. "Then why are thousands of your soldiers currently standing on my walls? And why are we conducting this business on a ship instead of in the Throne Room?"
Eddard clicked his tongue, leaning back. "I said I would return the city because I know Cersei's children are not of the Stag's blood. You are Robert's closest relative; the throne is yours by right. But I am a man of the North, Stannis. We don't give things away for free."
Internally, Eddard's plan was cold and calculated. King's Landing was a target. By placing Stannis on the throne, he was essentially painting a bullseye on the Baratheon king, forcing him to draw the fire of the Reach, the Westerlands, and Dorne. It would buy Eddard the time he needed to conquer the West and prepare for the return of Daenerys Targaryen.
Stannis, however, was fixated on the legality of the map. "I heard your wife calls herself the Queen of the Trident, and Brandon Stark has claimed the title of King of the North. This is treason, Karstark. It is the dismemberment of the realm."
"Stannis!" Eddard's expression turned sharp. He tapped the table with a gloved finger. "As of this moment, you have neither the prestige nor the army required to command the North. I told you the Wall is under threat from the dead. I asked for dragonglass to save the living. And you replied by demanding submission."
"You are rebels," Stannis countered coldly. "As the legitimate King, why should I provide charity to traitors?"
"We are traitors? Then what are you?" Eddard's eyes flashed. "A giant baby who only knows how to inherit what his brother left behind? If we speak of legitimacy, the Starks submitted to the Dragons, and the Tullys were raised by Aegon I. Just days ago, I was told the Targaryens have a pure-blooded heir in the East, ready to take on the responsibilities of a King. Why should I choose a stubborn stag over a Dragon with three fire-breathing monsters?"
"The Targaryens are madmen!" Stannis hissed, his teeth beginning to grind. "My brother and Jon Arryn bled to drive them out. Do you intend to invite the madness back?"
"Robert was an excellent warrior, I grant you," Eddard retorted with a mocking smile. "But as a King? He was a scoundrel who only knew how to whore and hunt. My father-in-law died because of Robert's incompetence! Do you intend to be the same kind of failure, Stannis?"
The silence that followed was absolute. A vein throbbed on Stannis's forehead. Davos looked at the floor, praying for the King's temper to hold. Melisandre, standing in the corner in her crimson silks, watched Eddard with a terrifying, flickering curiosity. She felt a power from him—strange, potent, and utterly alien to R'hllor.
Finally, Stannis broke the silence. "What are your terms?"
Eddard slid a parchment across the table. "First, regarding the Vale. Once you sit in that chair, you will pardon every lord who stood with Bronze Yohn Royce. They served the truth, not the Lion."
Stannis glanced at Royce, who sat nearby in his runic plate, and nodded. "No problem."
"Secondly, you will issue a royal decree naming Petyr Baelish and Lysa Tully as the murderers of Jon Arryn. You will demand they surrender the young Robert Arryn to face justice."
Stannis frowned. "I will not unjustly accuse the widow of my mentor without evidence."
"Varys and Pycelle will testify," Eddard said. "If that isn't enough, ask your Red Lady to look into her fires. I'm sure her god has the answer. Oh, and give Thoros of Myr my regards when you see him."
Melisandre's smile was like a dancing flame. She nodded in acknowledgment.
"As long as there is proof, the decree will be issued," Stannis conceded. "What else?"
"Independence," Eddard said, pointing to the second item. "The North and the Riverlands are no longer vassals of the Iron Throne. You will release our lords from all oaths, debts, and obligations. We are allies, not subjects."
"You've cut three-sevenths of my kingdom!" Stannis growled. "And another two-sevenths are held by the boy Tommen. You leave me with only the Stormlands, the Vale, and the Crownlands."
"You lose the land, but you gain an ally," Eddard persuaded. "I guarantee on my honor that whether it is the dead at the Wall or Tywin at Casterly Rock, I will stand with you."
Stannis stared at him. "Your honor?"
"My honor," Eddard replied.
"Lord Eddard, this seems unfair to my King." Davos Seaworth spoke up, his heart pounding. The former smuggler felt small in this room of high lords, but his loyalty gave him courage. "Resisting the Others benefits the North. Fighting the Lannisters benefits Harrenhal. No matter how I look at it, Stannis provides the help and you reap the harvest."
Eddard looked at the Onion Knight, the smile fading into a chilling, appraising gaze.
"A transaction must be fair," Davos continued. "You trade King's Landing for independence. That is reasonable. But to ask my King to tie down the Lion while you conquer the West? That is too much to ask for too little return."
Eddard blinked, genuinely impressed. "Then speak your mind, Lord Davos."
Davos took a breath. "Once my King enters the city, he will have Tywin's total attention. Your path into the Westerlands will be clear. But in return, you must assist my King in ending Tommen's rule. Before winter arrives, you must help us make the Tyrells and the Martells understand who their true King is."
"A fair deal," Eddard praised. He looked at Stannis. "As long as I hold the West, I will help you reclaim the Reach. But Doran Martell is a cautious man, and Dorne is a graveyard for invaders. You'll have to handle the Sun and Spear yourself."
"Agreed," Stannis said. "Now, what else? I wish to enter the city before dark."
"Dragonglass," Eddard said. "I need the mining rights on Dragonstone. I provide the men and the coin; your fleet provides the transport to Eastwatch."
"If it is for the dead, yes. I will let Davos oversee the logistics."
"And finally," Eddard added, his expression turning grim. "The Iron Islands. Euron Greyjoy is a threat to us both. Once the West and the Reach are secured, we join forces to wipe out the Krakens. Robb Stark's revenge must be paid in salt and blood."
Stannis's eyes flared with a cold, righteous light. He had pardoned the Greyjoys once before. He wouldn't make that mistake again. "Greyjoy is a capricious pirate. When Pyke falls again, there will be no pardons. I will hang every last one of them."
Eddard extended his hand across the table. Stannis hesitated for a heartbeat, then gripped it with a strength that felt like iron. The treaty of the Blackwater was signed.
[System Notification: Major Diplomatic Alliance forged: The Sun and the Stag.]
[Strategic Outcome: King's Landing returned to Stannis Baratheon.]
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