At lunch Robert laid out his plan to his old friend—how he meant to deal with the stubborn resistance he had never expected from House Baratheon.
Ned must sail for Dragonstone tonight.
He would go as Hand of the King, with proper ceremony, a modest escort, and Robert's personal banner.
Three things needed answers.
Why Stannis had gone silent.
Why he had fled King's Landing without a word.
And how he had dared take almost the entire royal fleet with him.
Of course Ned was also ordered to bring the runaway Master of Ships back to the capital.
Robert even ground his teeth and admitted that this summer he should never have mocked his younger brother—the same brother who, on that fateful night, had let Viserys slip away.
Now he was sending his oldest friend to clean up the mess made of quarrels, suspicion, and shame.
Ned was authorized to apologize in the name of both king and elder brother. He could guarantee Stannis and his family absolute safety, even promise new honors.
The king had at least been wise enough to see the truth: these men who already hated the Targaryens more than life itself had to be handled gently.
Ned agreed.
He had another reason for going to Stannis—one tied to the secret surrounding the late Jon Arryn.
The northerner was stubborn by nature. He refused to believe Stannis's disappearance and the Hand's sudden death were mere coincidence.
After meeting Gendry, that conviction had become as solid as the Wall itself.
There was a shared secret between Jon Arryn and the second son of House Baratheon.
And the king's brother could no longer, dared not, or would not carry it alone.
It was a conspiracy—there was no doubt.
Small-minded men might assume it was aimed at the crown.
But Ned knew his second father too well, and he knew Lord Stannis.
In the end, between brother and king, Stannis had chosen brother.
No. Their target had never been Robert.
Yet the conspiracy was real.
And the only living man who could unravel it waited on the far side of Blackwater Bay.
The voyage was only a day.
By this time tonight Ned would have his answers.
Provided he could persuade Stannis to speak—to tell everything.
But the Master of Ships would understand what Jon Arryn had meant to this northman.
He would know that if anyone in the world still burned to discover the truth, it was Eddard Stark.
He would also know that if anyone still truly wanted to protect Robert, it was still him.
At that moment Lancel and the other Lannister cousin whose name Ned could never remember finally returned with the blades.
The king drained an entire pitcher of lemon water, spat the excess onto the yard, and demanded another.
To the older squire he gave fresh orders.
"When I command it," Robert said, "you, Lancel, will help me into my armor.
This time we fight for real. The Others can take your stupid rules!"
Robert planned to march for the Riverlands himself once his friend and brother returned to King's Landing, leaving the capital in their care.
The fire between Lannister and Tully had to be stamped out by the king in person.
Both Varys and Littlefinger had assured the Hand that as long as the twins and Cersei's children remained under his watch, Lord Tywin would not dare move openly.
Yet a man as proud as Tywin would only negotiate with his own son-in-law.
And Casterly Rock's gold and swords were exactly what the crown needed most right now.
Littlefinger had made that brutally clear at yesterday's small council meeting.
Without the Westerlands' mines and wealth, there would be no war chest at all.
Yet the number of Lannisters clustered around the throne already far exceeded what Stark was willing to stomach.
Royal squires, royal guards, the queen herself…
Ned's gaze drifted to Lancel once more.
The boy was still so young. From a distance he looked startlingly like Prince Joffrey… same expression, same hair, same posture.
The northman's eyes moved to Ser Jaime, who happened to glance toward the Hand at the same moment.
The resemblance was even more glaring now, more unsettling.
Jaime and Joffrey shared the exact same golden hair and the same cold light in their eyes.
The boy would grow tall and strong like his uncle.
But that was hardly strange.
Think of the future blacksmith Gendry. That boy was just as sturdy, the very image of his father—the apprentice who had once shared a lover with the crown prince.
Yet Gendry's hair, eyes, nose—everything—favored the king himself far more than any of his lawful children.
Little Barra in the Vale carried the same stamp, Robert's first daughter.
But none of it proved anything.
Robb and Sansa both took after Cat—especially Sansa, the living image of a Tully.
Bran and Rickon…
"Ser Barristan," the king said suddenly, "how has my son been training lately?"
Ned's ears pricked up.
"Not good news, Your Grace."
Age and past glory gave Selmy both the king's respect and the right to speak plainly. "Prince Joffrey performs poorly.
Sometimes he charges like a wild wind, reckless and overeager. Other times he flinches and retreats the moment steel touches him.
The instant a real blow lands he drops his weapon and starts making threats."
"Little shit!" Robert's fury flared again. "Threatening Ser Barristan the Bold! What did you do?"
"I took a proper stance and ordered the prince to pick up his sword."
"Did he obey?" Ned asked.
"Sometimes, my lord," the honest knight admitted. "More often he runs to his mother."
"Seven hells and all their demons! Tonight I'll teach that little rabbit a lesson…
Ser Barristan, I give you leave to strike him. If the little bastard tries to run again—"
That short exchange dragged Ned back into the same dark thoughts.
His wife's foster brother, Littlefinger, had been reminding him lately to watch Joffrey's temperament and moods.
As always, Baelish explained nothing, proved nothing—he simply let Ned puzzle it out alone.
This time Ned had not needed long.
He remembered exactly what Robert had looked like as a young man.
As if the storm itself followed at his heels.
The young Baratheon had been all life and strength—passionate yet open, powerful yet generous, merry and carefree.
He had drawn everyone to him so naturally, from the Warden of the East down to the lowest washerwoman…
Yet his lawful eldest son had inherited none of it.
He let little Arya disarm him. He drove innocent children toward the headsman. Cowardice and cruelty twisted together inside him—the most revolting combination, the very image of the Mad King in his final years.
Joffrey's jokes always carried venom. His words cut like knives. Not a single servant in the Red Keep had a kind word for him.
In all the world only his mother seemed to love him without reservation.
And that arrogant sneer of his belonged far more to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock than to any son and heir of Robert Baratheon.
Then there was that cursed dying whisper, burned into his memory like a brand…
Had Jon Arryn gone mad? His final words had been too strange, too impossible.
No matter how Grand Maester Pycelle tried to explain it away, Lord Stark had heard too many deathbed utterances. Some voices stayed with a man forever.
Lord William Dustin had died whispering of his Barbary. Ser Mark Ryswell had called for the Mother. Ser Martin Cassel had cursed the old gods and the new. Ser Arthur Dayne had begged him to return Dawn to Starfall…
And Lyanna—she had made him swear that promise.
Yet not one of those people dying in agony had spoken empty nonsense!
What secret had Jon Arryn discovered that cost him his life?
What secret had driven Lord Stannis to flee King's Landing with the entire royal fleet?
This damned South. These damned, tangled secrets…