Eddard realized, with a jolt, that he was starting to sound exactly like the courtiers who had surrounded the Mad King all those years ago.
They too had branded every neighbor and rival a traitor, feeding the flames of madness one careful word at a time.
"Because Greyjoy and Redwyne both got their asses kicked by us, Ned!" Robert snapped. "They remember the sting… and if I have to, I'll remind them personally."
Varys, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke, his voice soft and careful.
"War can still be avoided, my lords, Your Grace. As Lord Renly said, the Free Cities are masters of poison. The trouble is… doing it ourselves would be extremely difficult."
"There is no honor in that," Ser Barristan declared at once.
Everyone at the table understood why the old knight had stayed mostly silent through the entire meeting.
"No honor, Ser Barristan," Littlefinger said with a thin smile, "but it would save tens of thousands of lives and a few million gold dragons. The latter might matter more. We only need to kill two people. How hard can that be?"
"Unfortunately, it is very hard," Varys answered with a delicate laugh. "Viserys knows his sister was nearly assassinated once. The princess is now surrounded by trusted knights and loyal servants. And they live inside the Black Wall. Getting anyone in there would be almost impossible."
"You don't have eyes inside?" the king demanded.
"A few informants, a handful of whisperers. But I wouldn't trust them with poison. They have no experience, and we would only get one chance."
"There is a certain brotherhood in Braavos," Grand Maester Pycelle cut in, "called the Faceless Men. They are said to be the finest assassins in the world."
"You would send devils to murder the Targaryen brother and sister?" Ser Barristan's voice carried an unmistakable edge of warning.
"I bear the prince and princess no personal ill will," the old maester hurried to say. "I served their father as loyally as I now serve His Grace. But consider—killing two people is surely kinder, and wiser, than sacrificing two hundred thousand lives, perhaps more."
Littlefinger broke in before the argument between the old knight and the learned maester could grow any hotter. He gave a nervous little laugh.
"Ser Barristan, you needn't worry. No one is hiring the Faceless Men for a Targaryen head—we couldn't afford the price anyway. If you expect me to scrape together the coin for a war and then somehow pay for the world's most expensive assassins, I'll have to beg leave to resign. That would be better than watching the entire realm, from Dorne to the Wall, rise in rebellion."
"How much does one cost?" the king asked.
"Your Grace, I have never inquired about the exact fee—there was never any need before," Littlefinger replied, still wearing that same pleasant smile even though nothing about this was funny. "But everyone who knows says the sum is unthinkable. The price changes with the target, and you only learn the number once you step inside their temple. That means we would have to send someone to Braavos, wait for him to return, then somehow raise the gold…"
Robert spat on the floor.
"I've had enough of your poisons and your daggers and your godsdamned schemes!" he roared. "I want to meet that dragon on an honest battlefield and smash his skull in with my own hands! Do you hear me? My own hands!"
Eddard Stark no longer believed a word of it.
Twelve years ago, maybe it would have ended that way.
But the Robert who sat before him now could barely squeeze into his armor, let alone swing the warhammer that had once won him a crown.
The exile, on the other hand, had spent those same years fighting and surviving, crossing blades with enemies on half a dozen battlefields.
If the stories were true, he had killed Khal Drogo in single combat.
The man sitting on the Iron Throne was no match for him anymore.
Yet the Lord of Winterfell knew better than to say any of that aloud. His friend was already drowning in rage, and that rage could turn on anyone in the room.
"Your Grace," Eddard tried one last time, "we would need tens of thousands of soldiers and ships. Nearly every lord and merchant in the realm would have to pay—either in gold or blood—for the sake of one Targaryen, a man most of the kingdom has already forgotten. You would be launching a war that almost none of your subjects care about. I fear it would only hand Viserys new friends and allies."
"Stop worrying so much, Ned. It'll be fine," Robert grumbled. He waved for the cupbearer to pour him more wine, drained the goblet in one swallow, then went on. "Better to fight him across the Narrow Sea than wait for the dragon and his wolves to land on Westerosi soil. As for traitors, their loyalty is easier to test far from home. Watching a pretender's army sail over the horizon is one thing. Plotting with him in the Disputed Lands while knowing your own castle and family lands will burn for treason is another."
"What's happened to you, Robert? Has the thirst for revenge truly blinded you?"
"Robert, you still don't understand," Renly cut in quickly, trying to pull his brother back to reason. "Most lords believe House Targaryen died out long ago. They won't change their minds unless the dragon actually shows up on their doorstep. If we announce an eastern expedition, every disaster and every drop of blood will be blamed on us…"
"Stark and Lannister are still at each other's throats," Ser Barristan added in his deep, measured voice. "Launching a foreign war before the realm's wounds are healed would be reckless."
"Ser Barristan is right. We must move with caution…"
"Lord Tywin Lannister is a proud man. He will never tolerate any slight. He will demand…"
Pycelle never finished the sentence. Robert Baratheon's patience finally snapped.
He slammed his fist on the table so hard the cups jumped. "Get out! All of you! Small council? Gods be good! Not one useful suggestion—just bickering and whining like a pack of useless fools! Go to the seven hells! This war is happening whether you like it or not! Out! Before I call for Ilyn Payne! Barristan, escort the Kingslayer back to his rooms and wait for my orders!"
The councillors scrambled to their feet, terrified the king might change his mind and order executions on the spot. Only Eddard was left behind.
Robert dismissed every servant, telling the queen's cousin to leave a flagon of sweet Arbor red on his way out. When the door closed, the room finally grew quiet.
"I could read it on that gloomy Northern face of yours," Robert said, his voice calmer now. "You still want to argue. Go on, old friend. Say it."
"Every lord here said what needed saying. So did I. You sent them all away… but you kept me. Why?"
"Because I want to explain it to you the way we used to talk when we were young," Robert answered, looking him straight in the eye. The wild fury had dimmed, replaced by something tired and heavy. "I know you've got questions. Ask them. I'll answer as best I can."
The situation was already a disaster. Eddard decided there was nothing left to lose. He asked the question that mattered most.
"Why, Your Grace?"
"None of that 'Your Grace' shit today," Robert said with a boyish grin. "It's just us. I don't want to hear any of those fancy titles out of your mouth."
"All right. Why, Robert?"
"Maybe I've gone mad, like the late Aerys?" Robert snorted. "That's what Renly thinks, I'm sure."
"Renly was too young to remember what you were like during the Rebellion. But I remember, Robert. You always had perfect judgment in war. Your instincts were never wrong—and you had that famous warhammer."
"So?"
"You know exactly how hard it is to raise an army. You know the risk of pressuring Houses Tyrell, Martell, Greyjoy. One wrong move and we could spark new rebellions. Even if we somehow gather the fleet and cross the Narrow Sea—through pirate waters, past the Three Whores, against an untouched Volantene navy—it won't be easy. And even if we reach the city and lay siege, that won't be simple either. Even if Viserys rides out to meet us, he knows every inch of land around the Rhoyne. He has a veteran army behind him, and he just crushed a Dothraki invasion. Our men fight for their lords. His men believe he was born to rule—they'll fight to the last breath."
"You're right. It'll be bloody. You're not wrong about any of it."
"So you already see every risk, Robert. I'll ask again… why are you so hell-bent on this war?"
After a short silence, the king who had spent his life at war finally gave the deepest reason of all.
"There are several reasons, Ned. I'll start with the most important one." Robert took another long pull of wine, then tossed the empty cup aside. His voice dropped, rough and raw. "Lyanna. This afternoon I heard her voice, Ned—in the waves, in the crackle of the torches, even in the bottom of the wine cup. She's begging me to kill Viserys, to wipe out the last dragonspawn. I have to do it, Ned."
"That's not what she asked for, Robert. And it wasn't meant for you."
"I listened to Jon Arryn's kind-hearted stories for too many years. The old man was wise, but he didn't understand everything. I kept hoping the Targaryen would die in some Pentoshi gutter or a Lysene brothel. Instead the bastard not only lived—he took the richest Free City in the world. There's no peaceful way out anymore, Ned. Either I die, or the dragon dies."
"Renly was right. The Free Cities are full of poisoners and cutthroats. Rulers in Essos never last long—especially usurpers. It's possible Viserys will be dead before our fleet even sails."
"And what if he kills the assassins first?" Robert's eyes flashed with pure obsession. "He's already shocked the world. He seized power in that nest of vipers. His father Aerys ruled for years, burning and killing whoever he pleased—because people let him. No, Ned. Sometimes you have to pick up the hammer yourself and finish the job."
"Why the rush?" Stark pressed. "We can wait. Fortify the realm. If he crosses the sea, you'll have a far better chance of beating him on Westerosi soil. Here we can call every banner in the Seven Kingdoms. He'll have only sellswords and the treacherous snakes inside Volantis."
"I have an answer for that too," Robert sighed, the sound heavy with the weariness of a man who knew his time was running out. "Ned… I've been sliding downhill for a long while. This summer—my summer as king—I drank, I fucked, I spent gold like some gods-blessed fool who never had to think about tomorrow. And now? I can barely piss without pain. I can't even get into my own armor. A few steps and I'm gasping for breath."
He paused, voice almost a whisper. "Truth is, old friend, I doubt I'll live to see another summer. When I'm gone, the throne goes to Joffrey. You've met the boy, Ned. You know what he is… Gods, why did they give me a son like that?"
The prince's cruelty had already shown itself at Darry. Eddard's brow tightened.
But Robert asked an even harsher question.
"Think about it. We both know the answer. Come early spring, if an army led by a victorious dragon—the rightful king—lands on the shores of Dorne, the Reach, or even my own Stormlands… what will my fatherless children have to fight him with? How does Joffrey compare to the battle-hardened commander who just cut down the greatest of the khals? How many glory-hungry knights will flock to his banner? How many lords will raise the dragon flag again?"
A heavy sigh filled the empty council chamber.
"I've listened to what Varys and Jon told me about him. Sometimes I even envy the boy—free, carving out glory and gold with his own hands, a strong sellsword captain. At night I wonder… if you and I had ended up in exile like that, maybe it wouldn't have been so bad. But now that bastard is threatening my children. I'm not a good father, Ned—you don't have to pretend otherwise—but I will not let Myrcella, Tommen, or any future children of Joffrey and Sansa suffer the same fate as Rhaegar's bastards. Never."
Eddard Stark spoke at last, his voice as steady as stone.
"Your children will be under my protection, Robert." He said it slowly, as if swearing an oath to the old gods and the new. "And under their grandfather's protection as well."
"Tywin isn't young anymore," Robert shot back. "His children aren't half the man he is. The Kingslayer only knows how to kill on the battlefield. The Imp… I actually like the little shit, but he's useless at ruling or war. As for my wife Cersei—better not to speak of her. But Ned, the Lannisters have never been my biggest worry."
"Who, then?"
"Cersei and the children tie Casterly Rock and King's Landing together. You're right—Tywin will have to back us. And I know you'll guard my children. But the Tyrells, Martells, Hightowers, Redwynes—every family that still carries a quiet love for the dragons… they only fear me because they remember what happened to Greyjoy. While I sit the throne we can keep them in check. The moment I die, they'll sail straight to Volantis, bend the knee to Viserys, and beg for lands, titles, and old scores settled. Right now we still have a chance to rally the Seven Kingdoms against the Targaryen. After I'm gone, that chance disappears. So I say we fight now, while we can still control the board."
Eddard Stark knew Robert Baratheon better than anyone.
They had grown up together, studied together, laughed together, fought together, conquered the Seven Kingdoms together.
And right now he could tell his friend was still holding back the most important reason of all.
There was one last thought driving the king to throw everything into this war.
"Robert," the Hand pressed, "I don't think you've told me everything. Since we're being honest, let's get it all out."
The king slammed his fist into the poor table again—this time with frustration rather than beastly rage.
Eddard knew he had struck the deepest secret.
"You're right… there's one more reason," Robert said. He had lost count of how many times he had sighed tonight. "And it's tied to the last one. I can feel it, Ned—the Stranger is coming for me soon. But I want to meet him on my own terms… on horseback, weapon in hand, facing the man who beat the Dothraki horde. King Robert's last battle—a glorious eastern campaign!"
Baratheon forced out a laugh, but it was full of bitterness.
"Sounds halfway decent, doesn't it? Better than dying in this cursed castle, drowning in my own piss, surrounded by ungrateful bastards. I've stared at Aegon the Conqueror's walls long enough. I don't plan to die inside them."
"You no longer have the strength. Even in single combat, Viserys would kill you."
Eddard knew the blunt words might cost him dearly, but he could not let this last hope slip away.
"Your horse couldn't carry you on a long march. You can't even get into your armor. And that warhammer? You can't lift it anymore."
"I know," Robert whispered.
"But raising an army takes time, Ned. While Littlefinger scrapes together his coppers and the lords and their little worms slowly gather… I swear to Lyanna, I'll get myself back in shape. We still have time."
After a long, painful struggle, the king poured the last of the Arbor red onto the carpet. Then he hurled the cup aside as if daring himself not to regret it. He turned to his Hand with fresh resolve.
"See that? My last cup of wine. Starting tomorrow morning, only lemon water and training."
Robert made a sour face. Eddard couldn't help a quiet laugh—without a trace of mockery.
His friend laughed too.
For one brief moment they were young again.
"And you, Ned—don't laugh too hard. You're staying here. You'll sit on that ugly chair until Joffrey comes of age. I'm naming you Regent and Protector of the Realm. You'll watch over the Seven Kingdoms… and my children.
Joffrey's a little shit, I know… but maybe it's not too late to teach him.
The younger two are still small—you'll have plenty to keep you busy.
And of course you'll have to keep the lords in line.
Truth is, I don't know if I'll make it back alive… but you probably won't be returning to your ice and wolves anytime soon."
Eddard Stark had spent his whole life carrying burdens he had never asked for.
He should never have married Catelyn. He should never have become Lord of Winterfell—that was supposed to be Brandon's fate.
He should never have rebelled against the crown; both old gods and new condemned treason. He should never have… No. Not the tower. Not that oath. Not here, not in front of the friend he had deceived for so long.
And now that same friend was laying another crushing weight on his shoulders: guardianship of the entire kingdom, and—far more important—guardianship of his children.
Three children who carried his blood, however different their natures.
He did the only thing he could.
He accepted.
In his heart Eddard swore he would guard every one of Robert's children with his last breath.
Bara's mother would no longer have to work in a brothel. Strong young Gendry could find honest work among the Hand's own men…
When he gave his word, the king smiled at him—the first honest smile Eddard had seen all night.
Robert rose from behind the table and pulled his old friend into an embrace.
Years ago that hug would have crushed the air from Eddard's lungs, as if Baratheon could send a man straight to the Stranger with nothing but friendly strength.
Now the once-mighty arms were soft with fat and loose flesh; the old power was only a painful memory.
Instead of blood and sweat, the king smelled of heavy perfume.
"Look at the work I've got ahead of me," Robert grunted, eyeing his own body with wry disgust. "But with you at my side, I believe I can do it. We still have a lot to accomplish, Ned. And this time we don't have that wise old mentor to guide us. Let's show the singers and the maesters what we can do on our own!"
For one heartbeat Eddard truly felt young again.
Then the pain in his wounded leg flared once more.
...
Brynden Rivers rarely—almost never—heard a cry for help.
In this cold, dark land so far from mortal eyes, such voices almost never came.
In the Land of Always Winter there were no pleas for rescue.
Only eternal silence and perfect peace. Nothing ever disturbed it.
Usually.
But tonight someone had reached him with a glass candle from the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.
Fortunately he had not wasted the effort of teaching the man how to use it in dreams.
Mortal magic was scarce, but simple tricks like this could still be taught.
The candle, however, brought not triumph but desperate begging.
The agent he had placed in distant King's Landing had tried everything.
The spider's guards around the king were too watchful. Robert's food and drink were tasted at every step. The king was never alone anymore.
His old habit of whoring had stopped.
Once, any common whore could have slit his throat while he slept or let an assassin inside.
Now, when he trained or sparred, dozens of eyes watched.
When he slept, loyal and dangerous guards stood watch. In the Red Keep he was never without an escort…
The man now begged his master to intervene, to send a miracle from the endless snows.
Otherwise their carefully laid plan would be ruined.
The direwolf and the golden lion must not be allowed to make peace.
The game was already hanging by a thread.
He had never expected Daemon Blackfyre to return in this way.
Brynden had long suspected that the Mad King's last heir carried something else inside his skin.
For years he had watched the final Targaryens, studied their growth, waited for the man who walked the world under the name Viserys Targaryen to reveal his true face.
Only recently had he confirmed the intruder's identity.
How ironic.
Blackfyre had become the last hope of the red dragon bloodline.
Rivers knew They existed—mad and ancient, as old as the earth itself.
Sometimes They plucked a soul They fancied and tossed it back into the world of flesh for Their own amusement.
But why had They chosen the soul of his treacherous brother?
Why had They stuffed it into the body of an exiled prince?
Trying to guess the motives of beings whose very names were forbidden in Asshai and Stygai, long forgotten by men, was pointless.
He could only adapt to the new rules of the game.
The inhabitant of the cold and pitiless realm slowly closed his eyes.
Magic was never free. It demanded sacrifice. The greater the power, the heavier the price.
To grant what the petitioner asked, he would have to give up another piece of his own life-force. But the request was genuine.
The man would never have disturbed his master unless he was truly desperate.
And Robert Baratheon's immediate death was indeed vital to their plans.
One more sacrifice, then.
How many times had it been now?
In the dream he would tell the man this was the last time.
He only hoped the Stark boy would return to the North—to this place.
He only hoped Lord Eddard's descendants would reach the refuge that should have been theirs.
Once, Brynden Rivers had believed he had defeated time itself and forever halted decay and death.
Now he knew he had been wrong.
He would correct that mistake while there was still time.
The stakes were too high to fail.