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298 AC, late spring.
The pain in his leg felt like the seventh hell itself. Every step reminded Eddard Stark that Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, had added another debt of blood.
In the street brawl outside the Red Keep, several of his loyal guards had died, and he himself had taken a grievous wound to the thigh. No one could say how many more lives this growing madness would claim.
Grand Maester Pycelle and plain common sense had both urged the Lord of Winterfell to stay in bed, but the Lord Steward had personally returned the Hand's badge and informed him that King Robert was summoning the small council at once.
Eddard knew that even if he set aside the duty of Hand, simple old friendship with Robert demanded he drag himself up, dress, and attend.
He heard the storm before he even reached the chamber door.
King Robert Baratheon's roar shook the corridor. The man who had overthrown the Targaryens and seized the Iron Throne was now in a towering rage, pouring every drop of it onto his council.
"Why the fuck am I hearing from the whore I fucked this morning that Viserys Targaryen the Third has taken Volantis?!
The whole city is talking about dragons in the east!
Where the hell were my councilors last night?!
Varys—where were you?!
Renly—you?!
And you, Littlefinger?!
Ser Barristan—where were you?!"
If fury could take solid form, it would have been Robert in that moment.
Eddard heard no replies from the councillors, only the king's voice growing more savage. "Oh, I see—you didn't want to spoil my night of pleasure?! Decided to wait until the news was confirmed?! Had doubts?! Didn't want to ruin my evening?! Well, I'm going to ruin your whole fucking day…"
The storm of rage cut off the instant the Hand of the King appeared in the doorway.
"Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Hand of the King!"
The herald's booming announcement was the only voice in the Red Keep that could silence the king.
Robert snapped his mouth shut. Every face around the table showed open relief.
The Myrish carpet softened his steps and eased the pain of the last few paces. Eddard slowly surveyed the chamber.
Grand Maester Pycelle's face was ashen; the old man had abandoned his usual serene stroking of his long white beard and was now nervously plucking at it.
The ever-smiling Master of Whisperers, Varys, wore a smile so false it looked painted on.
Lord Commander Barristan Selmy stared into empty air, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.
And Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, sat dark as a thundercloud, all trace of his usual light charm gone.
"Former Hand, you mean," Jaime Lannister said coldly from behind the king.
Tywin Lannister's eldest son, a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, had been confined to the Red Keep after his street attack on Eddard Stark. Robert had ordered him never to leave the king's side. The proud golden lion was seething and seized every chance to strike back.
"Hand of the King," Robert growled, looking at Eddard with a mixture of fury and genuine relief at seeing his old friend. He shot Jaime a glare. "This is none of your concern, Kingslayer. In case you've forgotten, only I decide who is—and who is not—Hand of the King in this realm."
"Thank you for the reminder, Your Grace," Pycelle said quickly. "Truly, we would be lost without you."
"Spare me the flattery, Grand Maester," Littlefinger snapped, all trace of his usual smoothness gone.
"Sit, Ned," Robert said heavily. Eddard lowered himself into the chair with gritted teeth. "Listen. While you were lying in bed, something big happened."
Eddard had no desire to rest.
He had been badly wounded in a clash with the Lannisters and now had to sit in the same room as his would-be killer, yet this was the king's command—and the duty of an old friend.
Still, he was beginning to wonder whether the man who had once fought beside him was still the same Robert he had known.
This nest of vipers called King's Landing had twisted everything beyond recognition.
"Yesterday, confirmed reports arrived from Volantis." Robert's voice dropped low, but the hatred for House Targaryen burned in every word. "Viserys Targaryen the Third—son of the Mad King Aerys, brother of Rhaegar—that exiled bastard we let live—has seized power in Volantis! He executed two of the Triarchs and over a hundred of their followers, proclaimed himself one of the three rulers, and now controls the richest Free City in the world. He has fifty thousand battle-hardened sellswords swearing loyalty to him."
Volantis—the most powerful and wealthiest of the Free Cities, with a vast fleet and endless gold.
A Targaryen exile had, in a single night, gained the strength to threaten the entire Sunset Kingdoms. To Robert, it was an existential threat.
"So, Your Grace," Eddard asked, forcing calm through the pain in his leg, "what do you intend to do?"
"Crush him!" Robert slammed his fist on the table hard enough to rattle the cups. "Call every banner in Westeros, gather every ship, and sail east! We cannot let a Targaryen hold real power. He will bring sellswords and gold back here and seduce every traitor and fool in the realm! It's simple: either we strike first, on our terms, or we sit and wait while he buys every cutthroat in Essos and weaves his plots right under our noses!"
War with Volantis?
Eddard felt a wave of disbelief and cold dread.
At this very moment his wife Catelyn was holding Tyrion Lannister prisoner in the Riverlands over the attempted murder of their son, and the dwarf's brother—the Kingslayer—sat across the table, the man who had just killed his guards.
Lord Tywin Lannister was already mustering armies in the Westerlands. Civil war was one spark away.
Jon Arryn's death was still a mystery, dark currents swirled through King's Landing, and now the king wanted to launch a foreign war?
Gods, how many more mad farces would this southern court perform?
The first to speak against it was Robert's brother, Renly Baratheon.
As Lord of Storm's End, his blood gave him more license to speak plainly than most.
"Honored brother, I understand your anger. We were wrong to listen to Lord Jon's merciful counsel and let the Targaryens live in exile.
But rushing to war would be an even greater mistake.
Viserys may have taken Volantis, but the city is far across the Narrow Sea, and Free City rulers change hands like coins. A foreign conqueror with an army of sellswords will never be accepted.
We need only wait. The old-blood nobles of Volantis will topple him themselves…"
Robert gave his brother no chance to finish.
"Renly, you know less about war and plots than you do about women!"
The Lord of Storm's End flushed crimson at the public humiliation, but Robert didn't care. He roared on. "Wait! Wait! Wait! Haven't we waited enough? All those craven lords waited while the Mad King slaughtered on the Iron Throne, waited for him to destroy himself, waited for someone else to kill him!
And what happened?
The dragon bit you on the arse and it was too late to run!
No—fuck waiting!
If you want something done, you do it yourself. Don't count on those spineless old-blood nobles in Volantis.
Targaryen bastards don't die easy. We have to finish the job ourselves!"