A/N: This chapter takes place prior to the events in the previous one.
Robert
Robert awoke with a splitting headache, even worse than those usually plaguing him. It felt like an army was fighting all around him, the sound of steel clashing against steel and wood ringing in his ears.
He closed his eyes tight and felt around the bed for the servant girl he had bedded down with the night before. She was a skinny thing, compared to the girls in Kings Landing, but she fucked like a shadowcat in heat. Her curly brown hair had also been pleasing, allowing Robert to reminisce about lost loves and better days…
But the ringing continued, and shouting could be heard amongst it, and the servant girl was gone regardless. His head ringed often enough after getting drunk, but the shouts…
"Winterfell!"
"For Robb!"
His head was pounding now, and the screams of dying men filled his thoughts, so loud that he couldn't drown them out. Robert rolled over to get away from them, only to see Denys Arryn get stabbed threw the liver by the traitor Jon Connington while he cowered in a whorehouse. Silveraxe Fell was hacked to bits by Heartsbane, Randyll Tarly shouting for blood. Rhaegar Targaryen whispered a name he had no right to speak as his lifeblood poured out of a hole his chest.
Robert turned to his side and retched into the rushes. Even that did not stop the yelling. Master Rodrick must take his training yard duties seriously. Good for Ned. But still, a man must sleep.
"Trant! Get that bloody racket stop!" he shouted at the door, knowing that Ser Meryn had been assigned guard duty for last night's celebration.
But Trant did not reply.
"What the fuck is going on…" the king whispered to no one in particular. Seeing nothing for it, he got up and began dressing himself. The remains of his once fine clothing were scattered about the girl's small cell. His smallclothes were stained with piss from the night's misadventures, and his breeches had shrunk once again, but eventually he got himself sorted enough to check outside and see why his Kingsguard was away from his post.
"The Others take you, Trant, if you passed out drunk again I'll – " Robert's threat was cut short by a sword against his neck through the barely opened door. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, man?"
Robert recognized his assailant as the Captain of the Guard at Winterfell, although the ruddy bastard's name escaped him. "You do know it means death to bare steel against your king, don't you? Ned will take your head himself!"
"I'm afraid not, Your Grace," the young man replied. "Lord Stark's orders. I can't let you leave this room."
Robert stared at the man in disbelief. "Ned would never order such a ridiculous thing! We would prank each other as children, but he never took it this far! Now let me out of this room or I'll spare him the trouble and take your head myself!" Robert peered into the hallway. "And Trant! Where the fuck are you, anyway?" he shouted.
"Ser Meryn would not cooperate with us securing this building, Your Grace," the captain replied. "The man was not a very good guard anyway, if you ask me. Might be he could have stopped a little girl, but he was no match for Wyl."
Sure enough, Trant's red-bearded corpse was visible when the captain shifted slightly to expose him. His sword was nowhere in sight, nor his right forearm. Worthless arselick. Not fit to guard even my shit, apparently.
"Give me a hammer, then, and we will see if I am any better," Robert challenged.
"I don't think so, Your Grace. You will wait inside until Lord Stark tells me otherwise, and I doubt I'd be able to find a warhammer right now regardless," the man said with a shrug. "Too much commotion in the yard."
The screams of the dying were indeed now the predominant sound coming from outside, not just inside his head. Every weapon in the castle was likely in the hands of someone, being used to kill someone else.
"Gods man, what in the seven hells is happening here?" Robert asked dejectedly, feeling his head pound with every heartbeat as the scale of this calamity began to sink in. "Does Ned truly mean to rebel?"
"I don't know my lord's mind, Your Grace. Although I wouldn't hold it against him, with what your son did to Robb," the captain said evenly.
"What could my son have possibly done to cause all of this? He hasn't done anything in his entire life!" Robert protested. "The twit can barely wipe his own arse without his mother's help!"
"I don't know the details, but everyone agrees that he killed Robb Stark in cold blood."
Robert stood there in shock. Or at least, he wanted to be in shock. He truly did. But if he were honest with himself – which he could readily admit that he rarely was – he could see Joff doing such a thing, if the circumstances were right. The sick child had carved the kittens out of a pregnant cat's belly once, and it had been one of the few times he had seen his eldest son truly happy. And he was a petty creature, something he no doubt inherited from his cold bitch of a mother.
Given the right circumstances, Joffrey would definitely kill someone in cold blood, and would expect Robert to protect him from the consequences. It was really only a matter of time before it happened, although Robert never thought he would be stupid enough to kill such an important person.
"The seven gods damn it all," Robert breathed out. If that is true, Ned has every right to do this. "If you can't get me my hammer, can you at least get me a drink?"
The captain gave him another small grin. "I'll see what we can spare, Your Grace."
An eternity and two skins of wine later, Robert found himself escorted by four Stark guards across a bloody training yard towards the Great Hall, still wearing only his wine-stained doublet and piss-stained breeches. Men in all manner of livery lay flopped down in the mud. Stark, Baratheon, and Lannister… and out of the corners of his eyes, he swore there were some Arryn and Tully and Martell and Targaryen too. After so many years, all battlefields still looked the same. One giant bloody fucking mess.
Dejected men were already cleaning it all up, hauling bodies like sacks of meat into piles by the outer walls. Women and serving girls wept and wailed, searching for their loved ones among the jumble. Bells rang in the distance as they looked for fathers and brothers and sons that they would never speak to again.
The doors were opened before him, and Robert saw Ned immediately, seated as he was on the old Stark throne on the raised dais at the head of the room. Laid at his feet on a pallet was the pale form of Robb Stark, eyes still wide in shock. The ghostly white skin made his red hair stand out all the more. Gore still covered his doublet, where it appeared to have seeped from a hole in his neck. Lady Catelyn cradled his head in her lap, tears running thick like blood down her face. Ned's expression was colder than the Wall itself.
Ned rarely got truly angry. The only times Robert could recall seeing Ned like this were when Jon Arryn told them of the fates of first Lyanna, and then his father and brother, and when he had stormed out of the throne room as Tywin presented the bodies of the dragonspawn before the Iron Throne. Some men got angry often, but were more bluster and wind than true threat, like Stannis. But when Ned got angry, people died and kingdoms fell. Arthur Dayne, if the stories were true, must have seen this face as he tried to keep Ned from his beloved sister.
"Gods, Ned, I –" he started to say, before a screech interrupted him.
"Robert! Get him to release me this instant! Let him know the price of manhandling his betters!" Cersei cried in her shrill tones. She was bound to a chair below the dais on the left side of the hall, struggling against the two men who held her down.
"Shut up, woman!" he shouted back, uncaring of who heard him say such a thing. Cersei was a proud woman, but she did not know when to admit she was overpowered or in the wrong. "Can't you see the man's son is dead! What would you have done had it been Joff lying there?"
Whispers filled the hall. Tommen and Myrcella could be seen on the other side of the hall, also guarded by Stark men but thankfully not bound, weeping loudly. The remaining Stark children were noticeably absent, although Ned's bastard and Theon Greyjoy were nearby with live steel at their hips. The Kingslayer could be seen in a corner, chained and gagged, clutching a bloody bandage around his right wrist. The Imp was there as well, strangely stoic and silent.
At least Cersei had closed her mouth. "Can I see him, Ned? I need to pay my respects."
Ned nodded after a moment, still silent and frosty. Robert approached slowly, and got close enough to see the wound. The skin below Robb's chin looked like it had burst from the inside. It was a stab through the back. I sired a coward and a scoundrel. A back-stabber.
Robert sank to his knees and wept. He had fucked up so many things in his life, but never something like this. He knew that he was shit for a king, that's why he needed people like Jon Arryn and Ned Stark. But to raise his own son to be no better than a wildling or a Targaryen, a murderer…
"Fuck, Ned… I am so sorry," he choked out between his sobs. He must have looked pathetic, a fat sod of a man on his knees and weeping, covered in his own waste. A pitiful sight for a king.
"I do not want apologies, Robert," Ned spoke, so softly he had to strain to hear him, although the room became deathly silent a moment latter. "I want an explanation. Why is my son dead?"
"Joffrey…" Robert stuttered out. "He had moments where the fury came on him, like the words of his house. That is all I can think of for why he did such a thing, truly." It sounded like the puny excuse it was, once he spoke it aloud.
"Joffrey is a murderer. He shared my bread and salt and even danced with my daughter not a night before. Then, before nearly one hundred people, he butchered my oldest son."
Ned left that statement hanging in the air. Robert respected the silence. There was nothing else to be done.
"There will be no betrothal, Robert. No uniting of our lines, now or ever," Ned declared, still calm and composed in his own terrifying way. "I will not be your Hand. Tommen and Myrcella will stay here, to be raised by me, as you are clearly unfit to be a father. Tyrion as well, as Lord Tywin's heir, to prevent any inappropriate retaliation. You may keep the Queen and her brother, but know that the first I hear of armies being mustered at Kings Landing or Lannisport I will not hesitate to take Myrcella's head."
Robert flinched as his daughter cried out, terrified. Poor girl… She should not have to witness this.
Ned continued. "Tommen will be kept alive, to inherit your crown. Joffrey will be stripped from the line of succession. You will make all of this official when you are released from here, with charters signed by the entire small council and the High Septon as well."
"And when Joffrey is found, you will give him the king's justice yourself before you leave Winterfell," Ned said. "In the old way."
"B-but… But Ned, I – He is my son," Robert sputtered out. "You will get your justice, but you cannot ask me to take my own son's head. None are so accursed as the kinslayer."
"I give out justice in the name of the King. Your name, Robert," Ned explained, as if to a simpleton. "If I did it, it would be in your name, and thus your sin all the same. Take responsibility for your own problems for once in your life, Robert!" he shouted. Ned never shouted, not ever.
Cersei chose that moment to make things worse, as she was wont. "You will never find my precious son, you filthy wildling!" she spat, making the crowd gasp. "Clegane will get him out of the North, and even if my spineless husband cowers at your blustering, my father never will. You will watch as your family is killed one by one around you, and your daughters made examples of by his men. The North will burn for this treachery!"
Lady Catelyn looked up for the first time. "And how will they escape in the first place? Our scouts are already searching for them, and letters have been sent to all of our bannermen. Lord Cerwyn will barricade the Kingsroad to the south, and even if they slip around they will never get through the Neck with Howland Reed searching for them. There are hundreds of miles of empty land in every direction, and even if he escapes from the riders and the hounds the summer snows will get him soon enough." Catelyn Stark could be just as terrifying as her husband when roused, it seemed.
The finality of their situation hit Robert like a bash to the head. She was right. Even if he wanted to escape, there was nowhere to run. The North was empty, almost, and there was little chance Joff would escape even with the best of escorts. Even though Robert would likely have to take own son's head, he had harbored some small hope that his eldest son might yet live. Perhaps to take the black, or to have some sense beaten into him once and for all. Try as he might, he could not wish for the death of his son.
"Fine Ned. I'll do it," Robert spoke up, trying his best to ignore his wife's outburst. "I'll do whatever it takes to keep your friendship. I need your support, Ned."
"You are not my friend, Robert," Ned said. He sounded stern, but his eyes looked sad. Like Lyanna's eyes had looked sometimes, when she thought no one was looking. "At this point, I'm not sure you ever were."
A/N: All mistakes are my own, although there were many more of them prior to the beta reading work of Gohan's Onna2. All criticism is appreciated. And yes, I gave Robert PTSD. I do not think this is necessarily canon, I'm merely showing it as a possible interpretation.
It is also worth pointing out that this is the second-to-last chapter of the story. From the beginning, I planned to cover only the immediate consequences of the duel. After the final chapter, there are many possible branches the story could take, but I'm not interested in writing a novel right now. This story is about the characters, more than anything else, and I will try to show you where they ended up.