Lord Eddard Stark stood on the balcony, watching his king train.
Robert had invited him to join, to relive the wild joy of their youth… but Ned's old leg wound still refused to heal, and his body could no longer endure such punishment.
He could only disappoint his friend, and that regret lingered like a shadow in the king's heart.
"Selmy, hit me like you mean it!"
The king's roar echoed across the yard; even the lowliest washerwoman in the Red Keep could hear every word.
"Why are you treating me like a blushing bride on her wedding night? Stop holding back!"
To Ned, the old knight was clearly pulling his punches on purpose.
The next blow landed squarely on Robert's shoulder.
Pain exploded through the king. Ser Barristan disarmed him with effortless grace.
"Ah! Fuck, that's better." Robert had to admit the ugly truth.
"Thank you, Your Grace," Barristan answered, tone ice-cold yet perfectly courteous.
The king's face flushed crimson like a boiled beet.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—an old man far older than Robert—remained utterly impassive.
The knight and his sword had become one; the blade was simply an extension of his arm.
Compared to Viserys Targaryen—younger than Robert, battle-hardened, and said to have slain Khal Drogo in single combat…
According to Varys, the prince of the Dragon Claw Company was already being hailed across the Narrow Sea as one of the greatest swords alive…
Ned forced the unwelcome thought away, but the dark cloud had already settled over his mind.
Robert's gaze snapped to the golden-haired squire.
Another of the queen's cousins, some boy who'd wormed his way into the capital through skirts—Lancel, that was the name.
Ned had tried to remember all their faces and names, but the mountain of duties had crushed the effort. There were simply too many.
"Lancel!" the king bellowed, finally finding a target for his rage.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Fetch the real blades! We're done with these blunt toys. I've had enough of this dull shit!"
The king's order left no room for argument. He flung the practice sword aside in disgust and turned to yet another Lannister.
This one he didn't even bother naming.
"You!"
"Yes?" The boy was younger than Lancel, clearly Westerlands stock—Tyrion's cousin Tyrek.
"Water! With lemon!" Only then did Robert glance back at the old knight. "My thanks, Ser Barristan. That's how you're supposed to hit. No one holds back on the battlefield…"
But the moment passed and the old Robert returned.
The crude tone resurfaced; the brief courtesy vanished.
"Kingslayer!"
Jaime stepped forward at once, golden head bowed in silence.
"You spar with me—real steel, blood if it comes. Now!"
"Robert!" Ned could not stay quiet. "Perhaps that's enough? You're already tired, and Ser Jaime hasn't even drawn his sword today."
"Oh, don't worry, Lord Stark," Jaime answered, the threat barely veiled. "It's no trouble. You of all people should know that."
"Then do it properly, Lannister, when you're sparring with your king! And stop threatening the King's Hand!"
Years ago Robert had used that same voice to lead his army against a far larger force under Rhaegar.
Now he was snarling at his own bodyguard.
"Understood?"
"Of course, Your Grace." Even facing the king, Jaime's tone dripped mockery. "Whenever you wish to begin."
"Once your damned cousin brings the blades!" Robert dropped heavily into a chair someone had hastily provided. "Just let me… catch my breath. Soon. Very soon."
Robert was trying. For an entire month he had touched not a drop of wine. No matter how miserable he felt, he drank only lemon water.
No more feasts. No more tourneys. Robert Baratheon was preparing for war.
Every day the king trained—against Ser Barristan Selmy, against the Kingslayer, sometimes both at once.
And every day the training exposed how far he had fallen.
The old knight and the Lannister showed him no mercy. Everyone could see how much the king's condition had deteriorated.
Years of drinking and debauchery could not be undone overnight.
It was always easier to lose form than to regain it.
The longer the training went on, the blacker the king's mood became.
As if the bad news weren't bad enough!
And Robert had every right to rage.
Ravens had flown into the capital on black wings, bringing black tidings.
The entire eastern campaign was already collapsing before it had even begun.
The first messenger returned from Riverrun. Edmure Tully promised to bring his men once the quarrel with the Lannisters was settled.
Lady Lysa Arryn claimed her son was too sickly and would send only a single trusted knight.
The Martells had written a long, tearful letter about Prince Doran's poor health and said nothing about sending troops.
Only Ned's son Robb and—to everyone's surprise—Lord Mace Tyrell had given clear, immediate pledges.
Together with Lord Renly, that meant only three kingdoms—and the minor lords and towns around King's Landing—were truly ready to answer the call.
With such meager strength, launching a campaign across the Narrow Sea was impossible.
Even Robert knew it.
And because he knew it, his fury only grew.
Some had not even bothered to reply.
The Iron Islands, the Westerlands… and Dragonstone—all of them wrapped in a strange, dangerous silence.
For a well-trained raven the distance between the capital and the Targaryen's ancient seat was nothing.
Pycelle's birds were excellent—strong and swift.
Stannis's answer should have arrived first, yet even Doran Martell in far-off Sunspear had replied while the king's own brother remained mute.
The first bird never returned.
A second was sent. Still nothing.
Even more disturbing was Tywin Lannister's tomb-like silence.
The king's father-in-law had marched his army to the Riverlands border and ignored every summons from King's Landing…
Instead he was burning and looting the villages of Tully bannermen.
Open war had not been declared, and the riverlords had not yet met Tywin in battle, but the dry tinder had already caught a spark.
"Ned!" The king's voice dragged him back from his heavy thoughts. "Still undecided? Come spar with the Kingslayer and me!"
"I would be honored to serve…" Jaime's words carried an unmistakable threat.
"No, Your Grace," the northerner answered as politely as he could.
Ned had no desire to limp into a real fight with Ser Jaime while his leg was still healing.
"Ah, what is this, Ned? On the battlefield no one cares if your leg hurts! No one listens to excuses there!"
When villages were being burned and looted barely a week's ride from the capital, how could anyone speak of sailing east to fight the Targaryen?
When great lords dared answer their king with arrogant silence while others invented every excuse to avoid the call?
From such open defiance to outright betrayal was only a single step.
Betrayal. A filthy, terrifying, contemptible word.
Yet it could not explain every silence.
Lord Tywin Lannister had already severed any possibility of reconciliation with House Targaryen in three rivers of blood.
The blood of Rhaegar's children. The blood on Cersei's wedding bed.
Stannis's unbreakable stubbornness and the loyalty of his garrison had once stopped the Tyrells from riding to Rhaegar's aid, costing the prince a four-to-one advantage at the Trident.
Most of these silences came from men whose hearts Robert had broken long ago—men who could never reach any understanding with Viserys Targaryen the Third.
But the Martells had outright refused to send a single soldier.
And House Greyjoy had not even deigned to answer the king…