Black ravens bring dark tidings.
The hand of the king, Lord Jon Arryn of The Eyrie, has returned to the embrace of the Seven.
Eddard Stark sat leaning against the tree, his hand pausing as he wiped the greatsword, Ice. Behind him, the face carved into the Weirwood bark seemed to be both weeping and laughing in the twilight.
Silence.
A long silence.
Only the low moan of the wind through the treetops remained.
Catelyn looked at his broad back; she could see the tension in his shoulders.
It had been fifteen years; she knew every kind of her husband's silence.
The silence of anger, the silence of contemplation, the silence of grief.
But this one... it was hollow, as if a bone supporting his body had suddenly been removed.
"My love, I am so sorry."
She spoke softly and took a step forward, her hem brushing against the damp moss.
"Lord Jon Arryn has passed. I know... he was like a father to you."
Eddard finally moved.
He slowly set down the soft cloth, pressing his palm flat against the broad blade of Ice, as if seeking to draw some strength—or coldness—from this ancestral Valyrian Steel sword.
Then he spoke slowly, his voice low and steady, yet Catelyn could hear the faint cracks beneath that steadiness.
"Is the news... confirmed?"
"The raven came from Gulltown. Maester Luwin verified the seal." Catelyn pulled the small scroll of parchment from her sleeve.
"The letter says it was a sudden fever. From the onset until... it was less than a day. Grand Maester Pycelle diagnosed it himself."
Another silence followed.
Eddard's hand tightened on the hilt of Ice, his knuckles turning white from the strain.
"Your sister," he asked, his voice dropping even lower, "and the child... how are they?"
Catelyn knew who he was asking about.
"The letter only says they are well and have already returned to The Eyrie."
Catelyn paused, then continued, interrupting Eddard's brooding.
"There is one more thing." She took another step forward, now almost close enough to touch her husband's shoulder.
"The King... His Majesty Robert, is already on his way to Winterfell."
"What...?" Eddard asked in surprise... North of The Neck, at a temporary camp beside the Kingsroad.
Robert Baratheon was woken by the urgent need to piss.
He clambered out of bed, cursing, and kicked aside an empty wine flagon. His hangover felt like a blunt axe hacking at his skull.
He fumbled with his breeches and relieved himself into a wooden bucket in the corner, letting out a long, wine-scented sigh of relief.
There was already movement outside the tent.
The clatter of pots and pans, the neighing of horses, and the gruff voices of Soldiers talking.
Robert haphazardly pulled on a shirt draped over the back of a chair—fine silk embroidered with the crowned stag, though the front was stained with last night's gravy and wine.
He didn't bother to button it all the way, exposing his hairy chest, as he bent down to fumble for his boots under the bed.
When the tent flap was pulled open, he was hopping on one foot, trying to shove his left foot into his right boot.
"Seven Hells!" Robert cursed, looking up to see Barristan Selmy standing at the entrance, the morning light casting a cold glint off his armor.
The Old Knight's face was like carved stone, but Robert noticed he was standing even straighter than usual... stiffly so.
"Your Majesty," Barristan's voice was suspiciously steady, "there is a messenger."
"Who the hell is it now?"
Robert finally got his foot into the right boot and stood up, his belly jiggling. "Can't a man get two days of peace?"
Jon had only just returned to the embrace of the Seven, and already all the affairs of state were pressing down upon him, the King, without even a moment's respite during his journey.
Robert spoke impatiently.
"Tell those people that once I reach Winterfell, I'll find a new hand of the king to deal with their—"
"It's intelligence from Varys."
Barristan interrupted him, which was rare.
The Old Knight stepped aside, and a mud-spattered man entered the tent, dropping to one knee and holding up a leather tube sealed with black wax.
Robert stared at the leather tube for a couple of seconds, suppressing his sleepiness and hangover fatigue, leaving only a dark impatience.
"Read it," he said, not reaching for it.
Barristan took the tube, checked the seal, tore it open, and pulled out the scroll.
He unfurled the parchment, his eyes scanning the contents.
For a moment, Robert thought the Old Knight's hand trembled, but that was impossible; Barristan's hands were as steady as iron.
"...Read!" Robert roared.
Barristan cleared his throat and began to read in a flat voice:
"Intelligence from Varys: Across the Narrow Sea, one calling himself Aegon Targaryen, about fifteen years of age, with silver hair and purple eyes."
"Leading the Golden Company, he took Lys, forced the surrender of Tyrosh, and compelled Myr to open its gates."
"He has occupied three Free Cities and claims to have a dragon—pale gold, three-headed, breathing golden thunder and fire."
"He claims to be the son of Rhaegar and has sworn to reclaim the iron throne..."
"Enough," Robert said.
The tent suddenly fell deathly quiet, save for the distant snort of a horse outside.
Robert stared at the parchment in Barristan's hand for a long time.
There was no expression on his face, only his eyes—those eyes that had once burned on the battlefield but were now clouded by wine and lust—first showed shock, then gradually darkened like a sea before a storm.
Then he laughed.
"Ha."
"A silver-haired brat, a dragon, and the Golden Company."
He reached out and snatched the parchment from Barristan, squinting at it. He didn't care for books, but he was literate.
His gaze lingered exceptionally long on the words'Son of Rhaegar'.
"Rhaegar's son," Robert said slowly, crumpling the parchment in his hand.
"Wasn't he smashed to a pulp against a wall in the Red Keep by Gregor Clegane? Brains all over the wall—that old bastard Tywin had to have men scrubbing for half a day to get it clean."
He tossed the letter aside, the crumpled ball landing on the muddy ground.
"And now another one pops up. Silver hair, purple eyes, a dragon."
Robert grinned. "Gods, do the whores of Essos pop out a few silver-haired brats every year just to swindle fools out of their gold?"
Barristan stood in silence.
The Old Knight's gaze fell on the crumpled paper on the ground, then he looked up at Robert.
His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his jaw was set tight beneath his white beard.
"Your Majesty," Barristan finally spoke after a long hesitation, his voice like sandpaper on plate armor, "the letter mentions a dragon. If it is true..."
"If it is true?" Robert interrupted, suddenly exploding in rage, spittle flying onto Barristan's breastplate.
"What if it is?! A giant lizard painted gold with two fake heads glued on is supposed to scare me?! Why didn't he come riding his lizard when I was smashing his father's breastplate?!"
He grabbed the nearest object—a glass cup—and hurled it against a tent pole.
The cup shattered into pieces.
"Jon Arryn just died!" Robert roared, his chest heaving, his face flushed red.
"His body probably isn't even cold yet! King's Landing is a total mess, the finances are a disaster, and the Lannisters are circling the throne like a flock of vultures!"
"And now another damn Targaryen remnant shows up with a dragon?! Seven Hells!"
He panted, pacing the tent like a trapped beast, his belly wobbling.
Barristan waited until the King's breathing had somewhat steadied before saying softly, "If he truly can command a dragon, the threat cannot be underestimated."
"Three Free Cities are already in his hands, and the Golden Company is the most elite Mercenary force in Essos. Once he consolidates his power and marches west..."
"Then let him come!" Robert bellowed, turning around, his eyes bloodshot.
"Let him come riding that gold-painted lizard! I'll be waiting in King's Landing to knock him out of the sky with my hammer and send him to join his dead father!"
Then, suddenly, Robert's anger deflated like a punctured balloon.
He stumbled a step and lowered his head, his heavy breathing echoing in the silent tent.
After a long while, he looked up, his face filled with exhaustion, anger, and a sense of powerlessness.
"Jon is dead."
He said hoarsely, as if talking to himself.
"That old man... damn him. He promised to look after the kingdom for me, to pass that uncomfortable iron chair to my children when they grew up, so we could go back to Storm's End together to drink and hunt..."
He shook his head, casting aside those thoughts, and looked at Barristan, his eyes clouded yet sharp.
"So what do we do now, White Knight? You tell me: a dragon, three cities, and a bunch of mercenaries fighting for gold—how am I supposed to deal with that?"
Barristan remained silent for an even longer time.
"I..." he began, his voice strained.
"I have never seen a living dragon, but my father told me that when dragons still lived in the sky, mortals could only kneel or burn."
"So you mean I should kneel?"
"What I mean is," Barristan looked up, his pale blue eyes meeting Robert's, "we need to prepare."
"We need allies. We need something that can deal with a dragon... if such a thing truly exists."
Robert stared at him for a long time, then suddenly broke into a grin.
"Right," he said, straightening up and patting his belly.
"You're right, White Knight. We need to prepare. We need allies, and we need a smart man to help us come up with ideas."
"And isn't that exactly where we're going?"
Robert said as he began to button his shirt. "Eddard Stark—the least flattering man in all of Westeros, but the one who knows best how to solve problems."
"Jon is dead, and the hand's chair is empty."
"Perfect. Let him sit in it. Let him worry about that dragon, worry about the treasury, worry about the Lannisters, and worry about every other damn mess."
He fastened the last button and slapped Barristan's shoulder plate with a loud clang.
"As for that silver-haired brat..."
Robert said, his voice becoming booming once more, filled with that arrogant, unquestionable confidence.
"If he dares set foot in Westeros, I'll show him exactly how his father died. Let's go!"
He strode out of the tent into the blinding morning light.
The Soldiers and knights in the camp stopped what they were doing and watched him.
Robert took a deep breath, his chest swelling like a bellows, and then roared his command, his voice rolling through the camp like thunder:
"Pack your things! Break camp! I want to be drinking in the Great Hall of Winterfell within three days!"
The royal banners moved.
Wheels churned through the mud.
The column snaked its way north along the Kingsroad.
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