BARRISTAN

"Hurry up, Lannister!" the king roared, "before I piss myself in a cup and let you drink it."

The boy Lancel hasted to the royal glass and filled it with his newly-fetched liquor. The king had just woken up, but already helped himself with a dozen servings of wine. His mood wasn't amiable this morning. Ser Barristan had overheard the young squires about how he and the Queen had fought again the previous night, which saw Queen Cersei storming out of the chamber angrily. Ser Barristan knew every time they quarreled, the Queen would go to her baby Tommen's room and stay there. And they quarreled all the time. "Robert is a smart man. He does that so he can get Cersei out of the way for the whores, no doubt," Lord Renly once joked.

The king had not touched his breakfast. Well, he commanded that he got drunk first. Lancel Lannister had already gone to the kitchen twice to refill his flask at Robert's rather obscene behest. Young and muscular with his striking golden hair, the boy seemed surprisingly slow and low-witted, different from typical Lannisters. His cousin Tyrek, another squire of the king, was far more intelligent and preferred by Robert. "That's why I give the bastard the easiest job – fetch my wine and give it to me," Robert once said, "and seven hells he fails at that, too." Robert emptied the glass once more, ordered his squire to pour again, and let it there to await his enormous thirst. The king hadn't even been properly dressed yet. Still in his sleeping baggy pants, Robert only managed to cover his upper body with a knitted cardigan, his massive belly still visible. His hair was a tangle of mess, his beard even worse, eyes sleepily wearied.

"Your Grace," a voice from outside – Boros Blount's, "the Hand is here."

"Let him in." Robert spoke, almost a roar.

Ser Barristan was changing into his bedclothes last night when Tyrek Lannister informed him of His Grace's private meeting. "I'm afraid you will have to wake up a bit earlier than usual, ser," the boy'd said, courteously enough. Well, he was used to waking up early, anyways. When you are old, you don't need that efficient amount of sleep like you did when you are much younger. Every morning when day was still barely lit, Ser Barristan would already get himself up. The best thing he wanted to spend his time on was reading the White Book, now and then adding something to it. History was always a fascinating subject for him. He would read about the story of Prince Aemon Targaryen the Dragonknight, died defending his brother King Aegon the Fourth; or the deeds of some famous knights like Ser Duncan the Tall and Ser Arthur Dayne. Dayne, that name gave Ser Barristan a tingle in his heart.

If someday he didn't feel like exploring the Book, he would stand at his window and look down on the street. He would see hundreds of smallfolks already up getting ready for the day; baker mixing their flours, smiths sharpening their tools, and children (orphans, he'd rather say) running around after shops and shops offering their little service for whatever food they can get to fill their stomach. On rainy days when his windows weren't visible, Ser Barristan would just sit on the edge of his bed, cradling his sword, remembering the old days, all the wars he'd fought. All the upheavals. The rebellion. Robert's Rebellion. When he learned that Jamie Lannister had drawn his white sword of his and….

"Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King," Tyrek Lannister's voice seemingly brought Ser Barristan back, "Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East."

Boros Blount had the door open and Jon Arryn took his way into the king's chamber as Ser Barristan took a close look at the reigning Hand of the King. Having reached the seventy three of his name day, Jon surely had passed his prime. He remembered Arryn sixteen years ago when the man bent his knee before Robert and accepted his position as Hand, the man was strong, prudent and wise, a powerful commander and principal strategist of the Robert's Rebellion. Now after all the years running and ruling the realm for Robert, Arryn surely had taken a heavy toll upon himself. Every step now and then, he seemed to nearly fall down. His back bent a little, and his beard long and white a color of cloud as he walked toward the king, who looked down impatiently. When the Hand was safely inside, Ser Boros bowed and took his leave. As he closed the door, Ser Barristan thought he caught a glimpse of Jamie Lannister in his golden armor, his poster straight like a statue.

"Goddamn it, Jon. No need for those courtly rule. This is my fucking chamber. Keep yourself up, I command it." Robert grumped, when Arryn proceeded to bend his knees. "Tyrek, get the Hand a chair." The boy scurried off hurriedly.

"Thank you, Your Grace." Arryn said after firmly seated, "Please pardon me, the walk to your chamber seems to stretch longer to me every year."

"Longer road for you to travel, longer time for me to drink," Robert drank his wine, signaled for another fill, and spoke, "Will you have anything, Jon? Wine? Water?"

"I am fine. Thank you, Your Grace."

"Alright!" Robert said, before turning to the two Lannister squires, "Out! Both of you! Out!" Lancel stood and watched Robert in horror, before Tyrek pulling him out of the room. Nothing was aimed at Ser Barristan.

Robert saw Arryn looking at the Lord Commander, and said again, "Don't worry, Jon! Whatever you have to tell me today is safe with Ser Barristan," and continued before Arryn had a chance to speak, "You look tired, Jon. What's wrong? Is it the boy again?"

Jon spoke, "He got sick anew, fifth this month. He cried all night and kept screaming for his mother. When the handmaiden touched him, he hit her and scratched her face. Lysa then had to bring him to our chamber in the middle of the night, and I'd stayed up ever since." Arryn rubbed his eyes.

Robert Arryn was not born a very healthy child. Ever since when he was a toddler, the heir of the Eyrie had been cursed with sickness. He ailed for several times a month. When something seemed to subdue, another worse found its way into his body. The unfortunate boy had added more pressure to his father, who was already busily occupied with running the country. When the boy wasn't stuck with illness, he got glued to his mother's body. Ser Barristan never recalled seeing Lady Lysa going anywhere without carrying the boy with her. The boy was also extremely whiny, spoiled and graceless. He would refuse to say a single courteous word to anyone, unless his mother forced him to.

"Where in seven hells was Pycelle? Did he help?"

"The Grand Maester gave the boy potions, said it'd help with sleep and the sickness."

"Then the boy is fine," Robert emptied his glass, "Now, tell me why you're here."

"You already had the answer, Robert." Jon spoke, solemnly.

"What? You meant the boy is the reason you're here. I thought Pycelle cured him."

"It's not…it's not only about my son, Robert. It's about my family."

"What do you mean by telling me that, Jon?"

"I am all worn out, Robert." Jon Arryn sighed heavily, "I have run the kingdom for you for sixteen long years. I had been capable back then. I'd had the strength in me, to take care of my possessions, and yours. But fire does extinguish, Robert, no matter how strong. And so goes my power, over the year."

The king leaned closer, apparently uneasy by Jon Arryn's words. That was the first time, in sixteen years of his service, Ser Barristan saw the king looking concerned and, a little bit in there, afraid. Even the time when Robert received the news from Casterly Rock that the Lannisport had been surprisingly and viciously attacked by the Greyjoy's Iron Fleet, the king had been angry, but nether once afraid. What he had done after that to the Greyjoys said it all.

He did, indeed, look alarmed right now.

"I can't give you what you want, Jon." Robert Baratheon finally spoke, after seconds of silence, "You know I need you. Westeros needs you. You know I trust only you for this matter."

"I need to care for my family now, Robert." Jon Arryn said, a sadness in his eyes, "It's about my house, my father's and his father's before him. The Arryn bloodline is failing. I'm old. My only heir is sickling in nature. I have no other brothers or cousins or any children from them that bears my name. Should anything happened to my son, the title Lord of the Eyrie goes to a distant grand-nephew of mine, whom I know little about and very doubt that has any blood of the Andals in him. I don't want the name Arryn to cease its existence at me, Robert. I wouldn't dare see my ancestors when I die."

Ser Harold Hardying, Ser Barristan remembered. A grandson of Jon Arryn's sister, Alys, the lad was reported to be very handsome and gallant. Called by the lords "The Young Falcon", the boy became relatively well-known after he was recognized as the next heir in line after Robert Arryn for the seat of the Vale. Nevertheless, Ser Harold did not really have a close relationship with Jon Arryn. The boy was born and raised in the Vale after the Robert's Rebellion, when Jon Arryn had already left the Eyrie to stay in King's Landing.

"You've been doing this for so long, Jon." Robert said, exhaustively, "If you stepped down, who'd succeed you?"

"I have come up with the list of…possible replacements for my positions, if I may. Five of them, to be exact." Jon Arryn took out a piece of paper that had been tucked in his pocket.

"Give me one."

Jon flattened the paper and took quite some time before reciting the first name on his list, "Mace Tyrell."

"And you think Tywin Lannister is going to be happy with that?" Robert snorted, "Me naming a past supporter of Aerys Targaryen Hand of the King and not him? Do me a favour and scratch out that name, Jon. And Tywin's too, if his is on your list. I'm sick of Lannisters." The Hand scratched two things on his list out.

"How about one of your brothers? I'd recommend Stannis. Renly…Renly is still too green for me."

"And make my life more miserable by having them follow me around and complain how they should be more favored? Goddamn it, Jon. Nobody is going to agree on any political deal with Stannis. In fact, nobody likes Stannis. And Renly...Renly is too young for such thing. You're not solving the problem, Jon."

"Then you know my last hope."

That tone from Jon Arryn gave a sparkle in Robert's eyes. "Are you talking about him?"

"I'm talking about Eddard Stark, Your Grace."

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of The North, Robert's childhood friend. Both of them were fostered by Jon Arryn at their youth. Eddard had fought beside Robert during the rebellion and became one of the most important players of the war. After the war, Stark had retreated back to the North to grieve for his father's, brother's and sister's death. Ser Barristan had not met the man since, until the Greyjoy's rebellion. The ruler of the North was famous for his sense of duty and justice, but honestly, he didn't see any difference between Eddard Stark and Stannis Baratheon.

"I don't know, Jon. Ned may do. But God forbids, will he accept?"

"I will go myself, Your Grace. I will travel to the North. Whether he would accept my proposition or not, I think it's likely. His first son and heir is already a grown man. He can leave Winterfell without worry."

The king stood up and walked around for several paces, still giving no attention to cover his belly. He looked out the window, quietly said, "I don't know, Jon. I wish I had not have to take this damn throne. I wish I could just give it to Tywin Lannister and live a life worry-free. I could be just the Lord of Storm's End. I could leave the damn castle and visit you and Ned once a year. No, twice a year. More than that. It'd be so much better, would you agree?

"It'd be, Your Grace." Arryn nodded his head, "Yet this is our path, our destiny. A man cannot choose his destiny. He must walk it, whether he likes it or not."

"Ned can be here, and he can share his duty with you," Robert said, almost pleadingly, "yet I still need you here, Jon. You will no longer be Hand of the King, but you can be my advisor. All three of us would be at the same place again, just like the old days." The King almost smiled.

"You don't get it, Robert. I miss the Vale and its people. I have lived there almost all my life. I want the Eyrie and yearn for the view on the Sky castle through my old bedchamber. I want to live the rest of my life where I have started it."

Robert turned around, finally looking at Arryn for a moment, at his old wrinkled face, "Goddamn it, Jon. I relieve you of your duty as Hand of the King. But you must wait until I come back from Winterfell. I'll travel there myself. And you'd better pray to the Sevens that I return with Eddard Stark."

The world stayed silence for a while.

"I…Thank you, Your Grace. I understand what I have to put you through. I really do." Jon Arryn said, with a relief in his voice.

"You can thank me in front of the court later when I officially announce your retirement. Now, leave me, so I can get back to my wine and misery." Robert said with an inexpressible disappointment in his voice, turning his back on Jon Arryn again, "Ser Barristan, please escort the Hand out of my chamber."

Ser Barristan moved slowly to Arryn, offering his hand, when he spoke suddenly, "My apology, Your Grace, and good Ser. But there is still one last thing I want to ask of you. And I pray to the Sevens that we discuss it in total private."