Disclaimer: This narrative and its characters are inspired by the incredible worlds of Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire, which belong to their respective copyright holders.
Jonaleon I
At times, Jon finds himself yearning to be someone entirely different, someone who isn't burdened by a name or a legacy to uphold. As he poured himself another glass of wine from a jug that was handed to him, he realized this was one of those moments.
Wherever he went, Jon invariably found himself seated at the Lord and Lady's table. It was often a tedious affair, with conversations veiled in gloom and heavy implications that detracted from the enjoyment of the meal. Jon would willingly trade all the gold in his possession to sit among the younger squires and the "less important" folk in the hall. Savoring the sweet, fruity taste of the summer wine on his lips, he couldn't help but smile as he glanced at the glass beside his plate. Everyone treated him with deference, even going so far as to serve him apple juice.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was dim with smoke and the air was rich with the aroma of roasting meats and baking bread. The walls, built of grey stone, were adorned with banners in white, gold, emerald, and crimson, representing the sigils of House Stark, House Baratheon, House Maltanis, and House Lannister. A bard strummed the high harp, weaving tales into song, though his voice struggled to rise above the din of the fire, the clanging of dishes, and the buzz of inebriated chatter.
Jon found himself craving more wine as the night came to pass, a longing deemed improper in such company, save for his cousin, the King, who encouraged him with every glass he emptied. Robert proved to be good company, at least while he retained some semblance of sobriety, regaling Jon with tales of battles, women, and hunting. Both men shared a longing for the simpler life they once knew at Harrenfell, and both felt out of place amidst the queen and the descendants of kings.
Eddard, the Lord of House Stark, and Jon's cousin, arrived first, escorting the radiant queen. She was as stunning as men whispered in their dreams; her golden hair adorned with a jeweled tiara that matched the green of her eyes. Ned helped her ascend the stairs to the platform and took his place beside her, though Jon could discern the tension hidden behind his smile.
Then King Robert made his entrance, with Lady Stark by his side. Over the years, the once-unmatched Robert Baratheon, hero of the Trident and a legend in battle, had become a shadow of his former self, his warrior's physique hidden beneath the weight of his indulgences, a far cry from the figure Jon remembered from his youth.
Following them came the younger ones. Bran and Rickon led the way, the latter managing the lengthy walk with all the dignity befitting a five-year-old. Robb followed, dressed in the Stark colors of gray wool trimmed with white. He walked with my little sister Daesys on one arm, a slender young woman of barely fourteen, her black curls cascading beneath a jeweled net. Her emerald eyes, which sparkled with a commanding presence when she smiled, mesmerized all who looked upon her, reminiscent of the charisma our father possessed. Robb, on the other hand, seemed to be grinning foolishly for some reason.
Next in line was Jon, flanked by his mother and his betrothed, Princess Myrcella, one on each arm. Daphne Maltanis, embodying the Stark legacy, frequently adorned herself in the muted colors of our ancestors at Winterfell. Her dark hair and pale blue eyes contrasted beautifully with her simple attire, making her stand out. She appeared no older than her peers. Myrcella, on her part, chose to wear the colors of her family's house, though she opted for less jewelry and was wrapped in a gray bearskin coat, a present from Jon prior to their journey here, which never failed to take Jon's breath away.
The royal princes were escorted by his nieces. Arya was paired with the young and portly Tommen, whose white-blond hair was longer than hers. Sansa, older by two years, escorted Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon. At fourteen, Joffrey was younger than both Jon and Robb but taller, much to Jon's chagrin. Sporting his mother's blond hair and deep green eyes, his golden curls cascaded past his gold choker and velvet collar. Sansa glowed as she walked beside him, though Jon missed the disdainful glances Joffrey cast around the Great Hall of Winterfell.
Then came the queen's brothers, the Lannisters from Casterly Rock, unmistakably distinguished as the lion and the dwarf. Ser Jaime Lannister, the queen's twin, stood tall and golden, his bright green eyes and sharp smile making an imposing figure. He wore crimson silk, tall black boots, and a black satin cape, the lion of his House embroidered in gold thread on his robe. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face, and "Kingslayer" behind his back, a moniker my father was never fond of.
Tyrion Lannister, Lord Tywin's youngest child and undoubtedly the most affable, was gifted by the gods with qualities his siblings lacked. Despite being a dwarf, which often was the sole focus for many, with his stature half that of his brother and struggling with his weak legs, Jon recognized that Tyrion was more than his physical appearance suggested. In conversations on warfare, Tyrion wasn't that far behind my mother, famed for her invincibility, and on politics, he could keep pace with Uncle Syrior, who has navigated those waters longer than my father has been alive.
The concluding noble entrants were Jon's cousin, Benjen Stark of the Night's Watch, and Ned's ward, the youthful Theon Greyjoy. Benjen offered Jon a kind smile, his demeanor easily making others feel valued or not, depending on their standing with him.
Theon, as usual, disregarded Jon entirely, marking no change in their customary discord. Once everyone found their seats, the event proceeded with the exchange of toasts and expressions of gratitude, inaugurating the feast.
It was at this point Jon commenced drinking and did not cease.
An unexpected nudge against his leg revealed a pair of glowing red eyes beneath the table. "Feeling hungry again?" Jon queried. Amidst the abundant spread still adorning the table's center, Jon opted to sever an entire chicken, letting its body drop to the floor beneath for Ghost to devour in stealthy silence. Despite his nephews being prohibited from bringing their wolves to the feast, the assumption that the Maltanis always had their loyal creatures by their side spared Jon any objections. His nephews might envy his fortune, unaware of the challenges that come with rearing a direwolf for novices like them.
Jon chuckled, reaching below to stroke the direwolf's soft white fur. Ghost glanced at him, tenderly licked his hand, then resumed his meal.
"The Maltanis have a penchant for white, don't they?" inquired a voice, laced with familiarity, from nearby.
Glancing up, Jon met Jamie Lannister's cautious gaze towards his wolf. "Purely coincidental, Ser," Jon assured with a laugh. "His name is Ghost."
After a lengthy journey together, interactions between Jon and the royal guard, who was preoccupied with protecting his sister, the queen, had been scarce. Only at Winterfell was Jamie allowed the liberty to mingle as a guest. Tyrion paused his ribald narrative to accommodate his brother at the table. Jamie settled into his seat, sampling the wine his brother offered. "Summerwine," he remarked, savoring its sweetness. "How many cups have you indulged in?"
Jon simply smiled in response.
Jamie Lannister chuckled, "Just as I suspected. Indeed, I believe I was younger than you when I first experienced a true drunken stupor." He proceeded to snatch a grilled onion, soaked in brown sauce, from an adjacent dish and bit into it.
Beneath Jaime's confident exterior, Jon could see a depth of sorrow in his eyes, the kind he recognized in those burdened with regrettable choices. It reminded him strongly of his own father. Yet, Jaime managed to maintain a semblance of humor in his green eyes. As he watched Ghost eat, Jaime remarked, "Quite the serene wolf."
"He's unique," Jon explained. "He doesn't make a sound, hence the name Ghost. That and his white fur sets him apart from the rest, which are darker."
"I've heard the Stark children have their own wolves too, we've heard them howling," Jaime mentioned, giving Jon a probing look. "Why aren't theirs here, while yours is?"
"They're still pups, lacking the maturity of an adult," Jon answered evenly. "Lady Stark deemed it best not to have them here tonight."
Jaime glanced towards the far end of the table, noting, "Our table seems less than joyful tonight."
Jon had observed the same. Having grown accustomed to such gatherings, he'd learned to decipher the unspoken truths in people's demeanor. His mother performed all social niceties, yet her tension was palpable. Ned was unusually quiet, his gaze distant. The king, having indulged in drink all evening, displayed a jovial facade, yet beside him, the queen remained as detached as ever. Not even Myrcella could elicit a smile from her.
Jaime's careful scrutiny revealed he was aware of Jon's perceptiveness. "Always observant, aren't you, Jon? You've been missed at the training yard. It's been ages since our last bout."
Jon sighed. "We've been busy recruiting. The day just slipped by. But Robb's an excellent fighter, haven't you sparred with him?"
"He was a welcome challenge, but he's no match for you or Ser Arthur."
Jon quickly retorted, "Robb surpasses me and Ser Arthur with a spear. He'd outshine everyone at the Southern tournaments."
Jaime considered Jon's words thoughtfully. "Tyrion mentioned your plans to head to the Wall."
"Indeed," Jon confirmed. "There's unrest brewing there that the Night's Watch might struggle to handle."
"Is that so?" Jaime asked, his tone laced with skepticism and a hint of mockery. He grabbed the nearest cup, filled it with wine from a jug close by, and took a hearty swig.
"We might not be clashing with knights in shining armor, but our foes are still fighters," Jon countered, his voice heavy with the irritation he felt towards Jaime's dismissive attitude, "and we'll be outnumbered ten to one."
"Ease there, Jon. It's just a bad habit of mine," Jaime conceded, realizing his comments had irked the young man beside him. "And what of your forces at Hardhome?"
"The situation in the Haunted Forest is largely unknown to us. For all we know, the attack could happen there instead of the Wall," Jon elaborated, "but it seems the free folk are keen on moving southward, away from the north."
"You could just burn them all; no one would miss them," Jaime suggested, a smile now gracing his face.
Jon's response was more somber than before, "A dragon isn't meant for slaughtering men."
"Daelon Maltanis might disagree with you there," Tyrion chimed in, drawing into the conversation. Both Jaime and Jon chuckled at this, Jaime, thinking his brother had caught Jon off guard, and Jon, finding the notion too absurd to be true. Yet there truly was someone capable of such feats, and that person was Jon's esteemed elder brother. Unbeknownst to the Lannister, Jon's laughter was tinged with pride.
Daelon was one of Jon's heroes, and though they had never met, Jon felt a deep connection to him. Any aspiring knight would be familiar with his legend; idolizing him was almost a rite of passage. Songs about his deeds were many, but only a select few had the privilege of hearing about him from those who truly knew him.
His uncle Syrior often remarked that Daelon was the most stoic man he'd ever met, always dutiful, with unyielding honor. "Women would swoon at his feet, and the lad didn't know what to do with all that attention," he'd say with a touch of envy. "But hand him a sword, and there was none better. Not even your father at that age," he'd conclude with a wistful smile.
Jon's mother often remarked that "love came effortlessly to him," and he was equally adored in return. Even years after his passing, Jon found this to be true, unable to shake the admiration he held for Daelon.
At fifteen, he pledged his allegiance to his Queen for life through a wager they shared: she aimed to ensure her lifelong friend wouldn't endure the bleak existence of being a Kingsguard, and he vowed to protect her and her descendants for eternity. He emerged victorious, dedicating his life to this vow, even if it meant battling and defeating four dragons, along with his companion, in his final moments of life.
Songs immortalized his most memorable deed, which was also his last, leaving his father to mourn with a melody of sorrow. His father rarely spoke of him, mentioning only once to Jon that his elder brother "was a good boy," before retreating to the halls of Harrenfell, cloaked in silence for days.
"Thankfully, should there be conflict beyond the Wall, no Daleon awaits Morghon's challenge," Jon remarked gravely, taking another sip of his wine. "Moreover," he added after dabbing his lips, "my brother sacrificed his life for that cause."
"I haven't overlooked that," Tyrion declared, his courage bolstered by the wine. Striving for a more imposing stature, Tyrion attempted to sit up straight. "If they're fleeing the north, embarking on a hopeless cause, why not settle in Hardhome?" he continued, "you've mentioned that despite the harsh cold, life there is bearable."
"Sam says that the Free Folk have withstood harsh conditions for generations, and the prospect of an easier life hasn't spurred them to action like this before," Jon reflected. The exodus of the northern Free Folk baffled him, "There's something we're missing, something that terrifies them into flight."
Typically, his father would have ventured to the Wall, but urgent matters concerning the Targaryens demanded his full attention. Thus, Jon found himself shouldering the responsibility concerning the Free Folk, as Hardhome fell within his family's domain, and there was a chance the assault might target them.
With five thousand soldiers stationed at Hardhome, experienced from half a year in the North, Jon was poised to lead them into battle. Educated from a young age to lead men, despite his family's circunstances dictating he would never inherit Hardhome, Harrenfell, or Lys, this would mark his first command over such a large force. This moment would test whether the Maltanis heir excelled solely in combat or also as a tactician.
Yet, what honor is there in confronting an adversary comprising men, women, children, and the elderly, all driven by desperation?
Jon's hand trembled, uncertainty swirling within him: was it the anticipation of the impending conflict or the fear of failure?
Ever perceptive, Tyrion observed, "And you'll lead them into the unknown, a mere sixteen-year-old," he continued, "not yet a man, despite what they say, not until you've had a woman. And I would bet my weight on gold you haven't yet."
Tyrion, fixing his gaze on Jon, queried, "Jon, why does the idea of battle excite you so much?"
"He doesn't understand the true nature of it," Jaime interjected. "War isn't the glorified image portrayed in songs."
Jon felt a surge of anger within him. "I've spent my entire life preparing for this," he retorted.
Standing, Tyrion Lannister remarked, "That's the real tragedy." He took a deep draught of his wine. "You've never really had the chance to just live, have you, Jon?"
Jon, feeling a chill, asked cautiously, "What are you implying?" His voice was so frosty it seemed to silence the table with its coldness.
He rose to his feet.
"I should excuse myself," he murmured almost inaudibly. He hurried away before they could witness his tears. The wine must have affected him more than he realized; his steps faltered, causing him to stumble into a servant and knock over a jug of mulled wine. Laughter rang out around him as he felt tears streak his face. Someone reached out to steady him, but he shrugged them off and dashed towards the exit, Ghost trailing closely behind into the darkness.
The courtyard was silent and deserted, save for a solitary guard wrapped tightly in his cloak against the chill, looking both bored and miserable. Winterfell appeared as a dark, empty fortress, reminiscent of an abandoned stronghold Jon had once encountered, haunted by the echoes of its former inhabitants.
The sounds of music and laughter drifted from the open windows, the last things Jon wanted to encounter. He angrily wiped away his tears, frustrated at himself for letting them show, and turned to leave.
"Jon," a voice drifted through the night, sweet and melodic. Jon turned.
A mere few steps away, Myrcella stood, arms wrapped around herself against the cool embrace of the night, her face a canvas of concern. "Are you alright?"
"Just needed to breathe, had a bit too much wine," Jon replied, striving to steady his voice. Upon seeing his betrothed once more, his melancholy momentarily lifted. "And you, my princess? Why are you not enjoying the feast?"
"It was too crowded, too noisy, and I'd had my share of wine," she shared, moving closer to where Jon leaned against the ancient stones of the castle. As she neared, he straightened, offering a smile that radiated warmth, returned by her own look of gentle understanding. The moonlight kissed her gown, casting a soft glow.
Jon hesitated before giving a slow nod. "Feasts were never to my liking. Like my parents, I find solace in the serenity of nights such as these."
"I had not realized your aversion, but your swift departure spoke volumes," she observed, her laughter a delicate sound that quickly found its echo in Jon. Their shared laughter became a bridge of silent acknowledgment. Tenderly, he grasped her hand, kissing it softly. A moment of peaceful silence enveloped them, a testament to their bond.
"Have my uncles caused you any distress?" she ventured to ask.
"Nothing of the sort," Jon reassured, his voice a soft murmur, his smile fleeting. His expression grew solemn. "I'm frightened, Cella."
Hearing his admission, Ghost approached, offering a comforting lick to Jon's hand.
With a smile at the direwolf's affection, she queried, "What could possibly frighten my gallant knight?" Her eyes lifted to the sky. "With your hand in mine, all fear disappears."
"Do you not feel the same, Jon?" she pressed, her gaze returning to him. Under her intense stare, Jon felt an indescribable pull, his heart captured by her grace under the moon's watchful eye.
"You can't go, Cella," Jon broke the silence with gravity, his tone laden with earnestness.
"What do you mean?" Myrcella posed; her innocence feigned.
"Your mother would have my head," Jon confessed. Haltingly, he faced her, hands gently cradling her shoulders. Looking into her eyes, he was drawn into their profound depth.
Yet, with a resolve he scarcely knew he possessed, he affirmed, "I mean it, truly."
Myrcella's smile blossomed further, sending an unexpected shiver cascading down Jon's spine. He chose silence as his refuge, sealing his lips tight.
"Let's vow, Jon," the princess whispered, her words weaving a spell in the moonlit night. "To hold this night, this very moment, close to our hearts as a treasure beyond compare."
Jon's face, awash with bewilderment, only prompted a gentle laugh from Myrcella. "I saw your tears for the first time," she reminisced with a tender smile.
A flush of embarrassment warmed Jon's cheeks, and as he opened his mouth to speak, Myrcella placed a finger gently upon his lips, her touch as light as a feather. "I will be the pillar you lean on, today and forevermore," she vowed, her voice a soothing balm that seemed to envelope the night in a cocoon of warmth. "True bravery, my dear, is not in being unafraid but in marching forward, even when fear claws at your heart."
In that moment, any words Jon might have summoned dissolved into the ether. Cradled in the embrace of his beloved, he found himself dwarfed, his defenses crumbling under the weight of his emotions. Through a veil of tears and laughter, he confessed, half in jest, "My mother will surely kill me for this."
Eddard I
As twilight embraced the day, casting everything in shades of tranquil grey, Ned felt the weariness of days spent in the saddle weigh upon him. Each dawn brought a test of his mettle, and the choices before him seemed ever more daunting. The caravan had halted for the evening's respite when the king summoned him.
Clad in thick brown gloves and a heavy fur cloak that engulfed his form, making him resemble some great, slumbering bear, Robert called out with a voice that seemed to cut through the chill air. "Stark!" His voice boomed, "come hither! Matters of grave import require our discourse."
"By your leave, Your Grace," Ned intoned, trailing after the King to his tent, where guards, silent as specters, lifted the flap for their passage.
"Here we are, then," Robert declared, the glow of a lone, flickering lamp casting long shadows within the canvas enclosure, where a simple wooden table stood like a silent witness to the weight of kingship. Robert's countenance, marked by a frown and the piercing gaze of command, held the room. Only Aunt Daphne was there, her presence a silent testament to tensions unspoken.
"I would have preferred a setting less burdened by the possibility of prying ears, yet the hour is late, and the matter too pressing," Robert confessed.
Ned's observant eyes noted the absence of Ser Steffon, Ser Meryn, and the customary retinue of guards. The King's voice was softened, his eyes rimmed with telltale signs of exhaustion.
After a moment, filled with the kind of silence that seemed to expect something to fill it, Robert spoke again, "We gather not for idle chatter. A missive arrived under the cover of night, dispatched from Lord Varys at King's Landing." From his belt, he drew forth a scroll and handed it to Ned.
Varys, that enigmatic spider who wove his webs within the shadows of the kingdom, now lent his talents to Robert as once he did for Aerys Targaryen. Unfurling the parchment with a sense of foreboding, Ned's thoughts briefly flickered to Lysa's dire warnings, yet this scroll bore different tidings. His eyes sought Aunt Daphne, whose discomfort was palpable.
"My own uncle," Robert spoke, his voice a hollow echo, as if the very essence of him had been whisked away by the breeze that whispered through the camp.
"And whence came this news?" Ned pressed, seeking clarity amidst the shadows of intrigue.
"Does it truly matter?" the king countered, his gaze drifting towards their aunt, in a dance of shadows and doubts where truth seemed as elusive as the wind.
"All that is penned in the missive holds truth," Aunt Daphne addressed Ned directly. Eddard felt a surge of disbelief coursing through him; the message divulged information concerning the exiled Targaryens. For years, Robert had sought to uncover the remnants of the three-headed dragon lineage, rumors suggesting their presence in Braavos had long faded into obscurity, only to resurface with the recent movements of Viserys across the Free Cities. Blinded by fury, Robert had once proposed dispatching an assassin to eliminate the Targaryen threat, an idea swiftly quashed by Jon. Five years had since elapsed.
"Uncle Galeon has found his revelry in Pentos, amidst feasts and wine, keeping the company of our enemies," disclosed Robert. "This was the pressing matter for his departure to Lys."
"There has to be more to this tale, Robert," Ned urged, his tone seeking peace, as he handed back the letter. "You levy accusations yet lack conclusive proof."
"Your uncle has played host to them for a decade," Lady Maltanis interjected. "Lys has been their haven, under Syrior's watch."
Ned found himself at a loss, his aunt's words, though delivered with a hint of unease, bore no trace of regret.
"Daenerys Targaryen is to wed a Dothraki Khal," she continued, her voice steady as a calm sea.
The king's brow furrowed in disapproval.
Eddard, his voice bereft of conviction, queried, "Why?" his eyes locked on his aunt.
"Viserys dreams of conquest, seeking to forge an alliance with Khal Drogo for his invasion," Daphne responded, her voice laced with disdain for the folly.
With a chilling demeanor befitting his lineage, Ned pressed on, "No, why did my uncle partake in all this?"
Daphne's response was resolute. "You dare not speak it, for you know he would never betray any of you," she declared, her eyes meeting the king's. "You two, above all, ought to understand his reasons."
With a cry that tore through the tent, echoing with unbridled rage, "My own uncle, Ned!" Robert's fury manifested physically as he scattered the contents of the table in a single, sweeping gesture, rising to his feet. Seizing a goblet of wine, he hurled it against the ground, where it shattered, its contents spilling like blood.
In the silence that followed, marked by the king's sudden, weary resignation, he murmured a curse under his breath.
"Was the spilling of innocent blood not enough?" Aunt Daphne interjected, her words like frost. "We deposed a king dubbed mad for believing his desires bore no consequence." Her gaze, icy and unforgiving, met Robert's. "Would you stain your hands further with the blood of an infant girl and a boy barely older than Tommen?"
"Their lives, shadowed by sins not their own, do not deserve the curse they bear."
"A dagger to the heart is their only deserving fate," Robert coldly asserted.
Rising, her voice colder still, our aunt issued a stark warning: "I shall choose to ignore that, for your sake." With those words, she departed, leaving behind a silence heavy with her absence.
Ned's expression revealed no shock; Robert's hatred towards the Targaryens was well-known, a fixation that bordered on obsession. Ned's mind wandered to the grim memory of Tywin Lannister presenting the lifeless forms of Rhaegar's wife and children as a grotesque token of loyalty. To Ned, it was murder; Robert deemed it wartime necessity. When Ned protested the innocence of the Targaryen children, Robert's retort was merciless: "In them, I see not innocence, but dragon spawns." Not even Jon Arryn's counsel could temper his wrath. It was the sorrow of Lyanna's death, a grief they both shared, that eventually bridged the chasm between them.
This time, Ned chose his words with care. "My king, the girl is but a child. Aunt Daphne speaks truth; you are no Tywin Lannister, who made a name for himself slaughtering the blameless." Tales whispered of Rhaegar's daughter, dragged from her hiding beneath a bed, her cries silenced by death. The infant boy, torn from his mother's embrace, met his end brutally against the stone.
"And for how long shall she remain innocent?" Robert's reply came sharp as a blade. "Soon enough, that girl shall birth new Targaryens who will threaten my rule."
"Yet," Ned intoned with a grim resolve, "the bloodshed of children stands as a vile deed, a moral abomination, an unspeakable horror."
"Horror?" the king countered, his temper flaring. "What Aerys inflicted upon your brother Brandon was nothing short of monstrous. Your father's horrific demise defies description. And Rhaegar... Have you ever pondered the countless times he raped your sister? How many dozens, hundreds of times?" His voice rose to such a pitch that his steed grew agitated. Robert tightened his grip before thrusting an accusatory finger at Ned. "I vow to eradicate every last Targaryen and their allies I encounter, until they vanish like their dragons, and I shall rejoice over their graves."
Ned understood the futility of argument; the king's vendetta was a flame unquenched by time, and no words of his could douse it.
A look of revulsion swept across the king's visage. "Curse the gods. I ought to have struck them down when the task was simple. But Jon stayed my hand, as did you. A folly, that I heeded such counsel."
"Jon Arryn was a wise and capable Hand," Ned stood firm in his defense.
A huff of derision escaped Robert, his fury receding as swiftly as it had surged. "They say Khal Drogo commands a host of a hundred thousand. What counsel would Jon offer now?"
"He would assert that even a host of a million Dothraki holds no peril for the realm so long as they remain beyond the Narrow Sea," Ned responded with equanimity. "The barbarians craft no ships. The sea is abomination, a terror to them."
The king resumed his seat, an air of discomfort about him. "This union vexes me, Ned. Do not forget, there are still those in the Seven Kingdoms who decry me as the Usurper. Recall all those that rallied to the Targaryen standard in the war? They bide their time, yet at the merest whisper of vulnerability, they will rise to slay me and topple my offspring. Should that exile king secure the allegiance of a Dothraki horde, those traitors will flock to his banner, and I cannot even be certain of my uncle's loyalty."
"Our uncle is a man of unwavering honor," Ned avowed. "We shall deal with the Dothraki should they dare tread upon our soil, then cast them back to the waves. Once you designate a new Warden of the East..."
The king's face contorted with displeasure. "For the final time, I shall not bestow the title of Warden of the East upon young Arryn. Though he be your kin, with the Targaryens allying themselves with the Dothraki, entrusting a part of the realm to an ailing youth would be an act of folly."
Ned anticipated such a retort. "Yet, the East requires a Warden. If not Robert Arryn, then perhaps one of your own siblings. Renly has been nurtured by the finest and has honed his skills within your court for many a year."
He let Renly's name linger in the silence, watching as it stirred a palpable unease in the king.
"So, it comes to this," Ned reflected aloud, weighing the matter, "unless, of course, you've already pledged the title elsewhere."
For a fleeting instant, Robert appeared taken aback, his surprise swiftly morphing into annoyance. "And what if I have?"
"It's Jaime Lannister, isn't it?"
Robert reached for another cup and poured himself some wine, while Ned watched him intently. With his eyes steadfastly on the cup, the king finally acknowledged with a brief, definitive response: "Yes."
"Kingslayer," Ned surmised, the whispers he'd heard now confirmed. He recognized the sensitivity of the topic at hand. "Undoubtedly, he is a man of valor and skill," he ventured with caution, "yet, his sire holds the mantle of Warden of the West, Robert. In due course, Ser Jaime is destined to inherit that charge. To grant one man dominion over both East and West..." Ned withheld his deepest concern: that such a move would place a vast swath of the realm's forces under Lannister command.
"I shall confront that matter when it presents itself," the king retorted with obstinacy. "For now, Lord Tywin appears as unyielding as Casterly Rock itself; Jaime's succession seems a distant prospect. Spare me further counsel on this matter, Ned. The decision stands."
"May I be candid, Your Grace?"
"It seems I've little choice in the matter," Robert responded brusquely, as they traversed the field.
"Do you truly place your faith in Jaime Lannister?"
"He is the twin of my queen, a knight of the Royal Guard; his existence, his wealth, and his honor are intertwined with my own."
"Much as they were bound to Aerys Targaryen," Ned pointed out.
"Why harbor distrust towards him? He has executed every command I've issued. His blade was instrumental in securing my ascension to the throne."
His blade also tarnished the very throne upon which you sit, Ned mused silently, holding back the words. "He vowed to shield his king's life with his own, yet he was the one to end it."
"By the seven hells, someone was bound to do it! Had Jaime not acted, the burden would've fallen upon you or me."
"We were not sworn to the Kingsguard," Ned retorted, feeling it was time for Robert to confront the unvarnished truth. "Do the waters of the Trident echo in your memory, Your Grace?"
"It was there I claimed my crown. Such a day is not easily forgotten."
"Rhaegar wounded you," Ned prompted. "And as their forces scattered, you entrusted me with the pursuit. We anticipated closed gates at King's Landing."
Robert, showing a flicker of impatience, pressed, "But instead, you found the city already subdued. Your point?"
"It was the work of the Lannisters," Ned clarified with a patience born of years. "The Lion's banner, not the Stag's, adorned the walls. They had seized the city unawares."
The conflict had stretched nearly a year. Some rallied to Robert's banner, others remained staunch for the Targaryens. The Lannisters had abstained until the very end. Aerys's fatal blunder came when Tywin Lannister, with his host, stood before the city gates, feigning loyalty. The mad king, in his final folly, welcomed the lion into the fold.
"Betrayal," Robert intoned, his ire flaring anew, "was a craft well mastered by the Targaryens." He argued that the Lannisters merely reciprocated in kind. "They reaped as they sowed. It's not that which troubles my sleep."
"You did not witness it," Ned countered, a hint of bitterness coloring his voice, haunted as he was by the deceits upheld for fourteen years. "There was no honor in that conquest."
"May the Others claim your so-called honor!" Robert burst out. "Did any Targaryen ever truly understand honor? Seek answers from Lyanna in your crypt about the honor among dragons."
"At the Trident, you sought vengeance for Lyanna," Ned ventured, drawing nearer to the king.
"But it didn't bring her back to me," Robert's eyes drifted to the distant horizon. "Curse the gods. It was a hollow victory. A crown... I had hoped for her. Your sister, safe... and mine returned, as was her right. Tell me, Ned, what worth is there in a crown?" He sighed. "The gods mock the prayers of kings and shepherds alike."
"As for the gods, Your Grace, I can offer no insights... only recount what I beheld upon entering the throne room that day," Ned answered. "Aerys was dead, drenched in his own blood. Dragon skulls bore silent witness from the walls, the room swarmed with Lannister soldiers. Jaime, clad in his Kingsguard white atop his golden armor, was a sight I can't erase. His sword, too, was gold, perched atop the Iron Throne, gleaming above us all."
"We've tread this ground before," the king muttered.
"Silently, I walked past the dragon skulls that seemed to scrutinize me. I halted before the throne, observing him. His golden sword lay across his lap, tainted with royal blood. My men filled the room behind me, the Lannisters made way. In silence, I stood waiting. At last, Jaime chuckled and rose. Removing his helm, he quipped, 'Have no fear, Stark. I merely warmed the seat for our beloved Robert. Alas, it's far from the coziest perch.'"
Robert's laughter dispersed through the tent. "Am I to distrust Lannister for briefly claiming my throne?" He chuckled again. "Jaime was but a boy of seventeen, Ned. Nearly a child."
"Be he child or man, he had no place upon that throne."
"Perhaps he sought respite," Robert suggested. "Slaying a King is no small feat, after all. And truth be told, that hall offers scant comfort for resting. He is correct, it is an exceptionally uncomfortable chair, by any measure." The king shook his head. "So, the dark deed of Jaime is laid bare, and we can leave it at that. I'm wearied by secrets, squabbles, and the tedium of ruling, Ned. It's as dull as tallying coins." With that, Robert stood and walked away.
Ned stood still, momentarily lost in a profound weariness. It wasn't the first time he'd questioned his purpose. He was no Jon Arryn, able to curb the king's indulgences and steer him towards caution. Robert would follow his own path, as ever, and nothing Ned could say or do would alter that course. His rightful place was in Winterfell, beside Catelyn in her grief, with Bran. He now understood why his uncle had never served any king as Hand, despite his evident competence.
Yet, a man cannot always choose his path. With a heavy heart, Eddard Stark accepted that he would simply follow his king.