Daenaerys
Daenerys rode beside her brother, her silver-white braid trailing behind her, feeling the rhythmic movement of her horse beneath her. The warm breath of the Dothraki sun kissed upon her skin, and she could still hear Viserys's voice, sharp with displeasure.
Viserys, sitting hunched and seething upon his borrowed horse, grumbled under his breath, scarcely loud enough to be heard. His sullen anger now a dull murmur, a pollutant that spoiled the air between them.
"It was supposed to be mine, all of them," he hissed, his lips pressed to a tight line. "Three eggs for a King. Now only two remain. What use are two? It's incomplete - a set reduced, a crown broken in half."
Daenerys turned her head to look at him, her violet eyes calm as she took in her brother's expression. His eyes were sunken, and there was a feverish edge to them, a rawness that spoke of desperation. She could see the redness of his cheeks, the temper of a dragon boiling beneath the skin.
"They are still enough to bring dragons to life," she said softly, trying to calm him. "They are enough to bring King's Landing fire and blood. Two dragons are still dragons, my brother."
Viserys glared at her, his lip curling. "You know nothing, Dany," he spat. "You always knew nothing. They were meant for a King, for the return of the dragonlords, and now I have been cheated. I will have my vengeance for this."
She sighed, and kept her eyes ahead. The Dothraki horde was spread out over the steppe, a flowing, living thing, the horses merging and shifting like waves of a great tide.
Khal Drogo rode at the head, silent and inscrutable as he was perched upon his red stallion.
When the sun began to set, the Khal signaled for the horde to make camp, and the Dothraki scattered, beginning to unpack their yurts and tend to their horses.
Daenerys dismounted, and as her feet touched the ground, she saw her brother stride towards Khal Drogo, his face dark with the shadow of rage.
"What are you doing, Viserys?" she called, trying to catch up to him.
He ignored her, his eyes fixed on the tall form of the Khal. Drogo looked at Viserys, his dark eyes narrowing, a slow, lazy turn of his head as the Targaryen approached him.
"I demand what is mine!" Viserys's fists tightened into white hot knuckles. "You promised me an army, a means to take back my throne. What good are your promises if you refuse to deliver? King's Landing should already be mine! Attack now, and fulfill your word!"
The Khal did not move, and for a long moment there was only silence, save for the crackling of campfires and the stamping of restless horses. Then Drogo spoke, his voice a low rumble in his own tongue, full of derision and authority.
Daenerys stepped forward and translated. "The Khal says the time is not right, that only when the seas part for their horses can they cross to Westeros." She looked at Viserys, hoping he would understand, would back down.
But he did not. Viserys threw his arms up in the air his voice rising with incredulousness. "The seas will never part! You promised me! You owe me an army! I have done everything that was asked of me! I am the rightful king!"
The Dothraki watched, their expressions hidden in shadow, their eyes cold and disdainful. Viserys, oblivious to the danger, continued, his face twisted with fury. He stepped towards Daenerys, raising a hand as though to strike her, his eyes wide with unreason.
"I order you to tell him to attack!"
"Viserys, stop!" she said, stepping back. She saw his madness then, clear as daylight, the madness of their blood that she had always feared. "You must listen—"
"No! Enough of your riddles, of your nonsense! I am the dragon, and I will not be mocked!" He lunged at her, but before he could come near, a flash of leather snapped through the air.
One of the Dothraki lashed out, his whip curling around Viserys's arm, yanking him back. Viserys cried out, stumbling, and another crack of the whip caught him across the back, tearing his shirt, leaving a welt behind.
He screamed, high and thin, and the Dothraki laughed, a dark, rolling laughter that filled the night air.
Viserys fell to his knees, his eyes wide with fear, looking up at Daenerys, tears welling in his eyes. "Dany... Dany, tell them to stop. Please, tell them to stop."
Daenerys stood still, her heart a cold weight in her chest. She watched as they whipped him again, watched the desperation in his eyes, and she felt something shift inside her. She had always feared Viserys, had always obeyed him, but now she saw him for what he was - a frightened, broken boy, a hollow thing of desperation.
"No," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper.
"No, brother," She spoke again, her head raised, looking down upon her brother with the gaze of madness that had once been reflected in her brother's eyes.
"You have brought this upon yourself."
Viserys's screams turned to sobs, and he curled in on himself, shaking. The Dothraki laughed again, their laughter like the barking of wolves as they continued to whip him. Leather whips sheared flesh from his body, peeling away at the surface until the pale skin turned raw and tender. The ground beneath ran red with seeping blood, and it pooled around Viserys's curled form.
He looked now as he always was - a baby squealing in a batter of blood.
Finally, Daenerys raised her hand, and the whips fell still.
"Strip him," she said, her voice carrying in the silence. "And tie him to a wooden post."
Viserys's eyes widened further, and he struggled weakly as two Dothraki warriors hauled him to his feet. "Dany, no... please, no..."
They dragged him to the post and stripped him, leaving him bare and shivering in the night air. Daenerys watched, her face impassive, as they tied him to the post, his arms stretched above his head. She turned to one of the Dothraki and spoke in their tongue, her voice low and steady.
"Bring him his egg."
The warrior returned moments later, the dragon egg cradled in his arms. He placed it in Viserys's lap, and Daenerys stepped forward, her eyes meeting her brother's. "I leave you with the only thing you truly love, brother," she said softly. "A dragon's egg, for the dragon."
Viserys stared at her, his face pale and drawn, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and confusion. "Dany... please... don't leave me here."
But Daenerys had already turned away. She mounted her silver and looked to Khal Drogo, who nodded in approval. She felt the eyes of the Dothraki on her, their respect, their admiration. She was khaleesi, and she had shown them her strength.
Without another word, she spurred her horse forward, and the Dothraki followed, leaving Viserys behind, naked and alone, his screams echoing in the darkness as they rode away.
Jorah Mormont rode up beside her on his steed. He looked at her, his eyes filled with a mix of admiration and a twinkle that she could not place.
"What you did was more than just, Khaleesi," he said. "Viserys was no dragon. He was a serpent that breathed poisoned."
Dany looked at him, and then turned her gaze forward, her eyes on the horizon.
Jon
The practice yard at Castle Black was nearly empty now, save for a few recruits still nursing bruises from their morning drills. Jon had dispatched them all - Grenn, Pyp, even the foul-mouthed Toad. He'd sent them sprawling in the dirt one by one, his sword ringing with the sharp, cold sound of steel. Ser Alliser offered no praise, only a sneer that twisted his thin lips. But Jon didn't need his approval. He knew he was ready.
Benjen watched from the shadow of the armory. His face, always so familiar, was a mask of stone. Jon wiped the sweat from his brow and sheathed his practice sword, striding toward his uncle with a determined step.
"I'm ready," Jon said, the words coming out sharper than he'd intended. The wind tugged at his cloak, but he stood tall, meeting his uncle's gaze. "I want to ride with you beyond the Wall. Let me come with you, Uncle. I'm not like the others. I'm ready to earn my keep."
Benjen studied him in silence. His uncle had the same grey eyes as his father, eyes that always seemed to look deeper than Jon was comfortable with, as if they could see the questions lurking beneath his skin.
"Ser Rodrik has taught you well," Benjen said finally, his voice low and even. "You've done good, better than most. Ser Alliser's been muttering to anyone who'll listen that you've got a sword hand as sharp as your tongue."
A small smile tugged at the corner of Jon's mouth, but it didn't last. He could sense a 'but' hanging in the cold air between them.
"But a sword hand alone won't make you a ranger," Benjen said, his tone softer now. "The Night's Watch isn't about glory or honor, Jon. You will never hear our name in songs, and your time here has only just begun."
Jon's heart thudded in his chest. "I'll earn it," he said, stepping closer. "If you give me a chance I won't let you down."
Benjen's face remained impassive. "You're still a boy, Jon. You've not seen what's out there. Beyond the Wall… it's not just wildlings and ice. It's the cold. The dark. Things that will give you sleepless nights."
"I've heard the stories," Jon said, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. "Old Nan's tales, grumkins and snarks? I'm not a child anymore, Uncle."
Benjen frowned. "Stories, yes. But I've lived it, Jon. I've seen things you can't imagine. Beyond the Wall, the only thing that matters is survival."
"I want to learn to survive," Jon replied, his voice steady. "No, I want to do more than that. I want to be a ranger, like you."
Before Benjen could respond, a shout came from the gates of Castle Black.
A rider approached, half-stumbling through the snow. The grim figure on horseback was barely recognizable beneath layers of frost and grime. Jon squinted, his breath catching in his throat.
"Will," Benjen muttered under his breath, his brow furrowing.
The man was tied at the wrists, bound to his saddle, his head lolling with exhaustion. Two black brothers flanked him, their faces set in grim lines. Jon's heart quickened as he saw Lord Commander Mormont waiting in the courtyard, his ancestral sword Longclaw gleaming against the snow. The other brothers began to gather, murmuring amongst themselves.
"What happened?" Jon asked, glancing at his uncle.
Benjen's expression darkened. "That's Will, one of the rangers we sent north. His party's been missing for weeks."
The cold that had seeped into Jon's bones now froze his blood. A tension hung in the air as Will was pulled from his horse, dragged into the courtyard before the Lord Commander. His face had been marred with dirt and ice, his eyes wild with fear.
"Lord Commander!" One of the men holding Will called out, his breath coming in ragged clouds. "We found him beyond the Wall. He deserted his brothers."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Jon's eyes flicked to Ser Alliser, who stood nearby, arms crossed, a look of disgust carved into his sharp features.
Mormont's voice rang out, cutting through the murmurs. "Is it true, Will?" he demanded. "Did you desert?"
Will dropped to his knees, shaking his head furiously, but his voice was hoarse and broken when he spoke. "I… I didn't desert. I ran, aye. But I didn't mean to leave them. I didn't have a choice."
Ser Alliser sneered. "There's always a choice."
Will's eyes darted from face to face, desperation gnawing at his expression. "You don't understand. We were outnumbered… surrounded. There were wildlings everywhere, more than I've ever seen."
"The Haunting Forest is thick with them," Benjen muttered, his voice low enough that only Jon could hear. "But we haven't had reports of anything unusual."
Will continued, his words spilling out faster now. "They've changed. They're organized now, like an army. They've got scouts and rangers of their own. They cut us down before we knew what was happening. Gared… Ser Waymar… they're dead. I only escaped by hiding, waiting until it was dark enough to slip away. But… but they're coming."
Another ripple of murmurs spread through the Night's Watch, this one sharper, more fearful. Jon felt the cold bite harder at his skin as he heard the words, felt the weight of them. He looked to Benjen, hoping for reassurance, but his uncle's face had turned grim, his eyes narrowing as he watched Will speak.
"A wildling army," Jon whispered, scarcely believing it. "Can that really be true?"
Benjen didn't answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on Will, watching him with the same intensity that he had once used on Jon.
"Will was a true ranger," Benjen said quietly. "Tough. Good with a sword. For him to run…" He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "He must have seen something that spooked him bad."
Jon swallowed hard. There had always been stories of the wildlings, the free folk who lived beyond the Wall. They were raiders, thieves, savages who lived in clans and caves, but this… this sounded different. Something worse.
Lord Commander Mormont raised his sword, silencing the murmurs with a single, heavy gesture. "Desertion in the Night's Watch is punishable by death," he declared, his voice as cold as the wind. "Whatever your reasons, Will, you broke your vow. You hid beyond the Wall until you were tracked down."
Will's eyes remained wide yet haunted. "The Wall won't hold. We need more men. I understand that I shouldn't have hid, but I'd rather die by the sword of a Brother than by the axe of a Wilding."
"As you say," Mormont said, his tone final.
Alliser Thorne stepped forward, his gaunt features set in a cruel grin as he grabbed Will by the back of his neck, forcing him to his knees in the snow. The other brothers looked on, some with stony faces, others with expressions of discomfort or fear.
Jon clenched his fists, his heart hammering in his chest. He glanced at Benjen again, but his uncle's face was unreadable, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before them.
Mormont said the words, the last rites of the condemned, and then, with a swift motion, he brought Longclaw down. The blade was Valyrian steel, sharper than winter's breath.
Will's head fell into the snow, his body crumpling beside it, and for a moment, all was still.
The courtyard was silent, save for the wind.
As the workers moved to clean up the remains, Benjen turned to Jon, his voice low and steady.
"Your training begins now," he said, his eyes hard as iron. "If you want to be a ranger, you'd best be ready for what's coming."
Eddard
Ned sat at his desk, staring down at the ancient book before him, The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, an enormous tome, as yellowed and dry as old bones.
His eyes, weary from hours spent pouring over the endless pages, were fixed on the inked letters. Black of hair, they read, black of hair. He turned another page, his finger tracing the lines. Every Baratheon, from Orys himself down to Boryn, black of hair, without exception.
And yet… Joffrey.
Joffrey was golden, as were Tommen and Myrcella. He had seen it himself, clearer than any written word could ever tell him. The children were fair-haired, with eyes that glittered like emeralds, the very image of Lannister pride.
Ned closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of it all settle onto his shoulders like a mantle of lead. The truth sat there before him, glaring, unmistakable. He did not want to believe it - he could not - but the pieces were falling into place, each one sealing the fate of the realm in a conspiracy too vile to ignore.
Robert's children were not his own.
He turned back to the book, eyes narrowing. Boryn Baratheon, he read, black of hair. Boryn had grown into the very image of his father: broad-shouldered, wild, and dark of hue. There had been no doubt in his mind that Boryn was a Baratheon, no more than there had ever been doubt about Robert himself.
But those other children…
A knock interrupted his thoughts, the sound rapping sharply against the wooden door. Ned closed the book swiftly, sliding it beneath a stack of papers as he rose to his feet.
"Who is it?" he asked, his voice calm, though his mind still swirled with the damning revelations he had uncovered.
"It's Jory, my lord," came the reply.
Ned allowed himself a brief sigh of relief before he called out, "Come in."
The door creaked open and Jory stepped inside, a faint smile on his lips as he closed the door behind him. His cloak was damp from the drizzle outside, and his face bore hard lines.
"How are you finding your new post, Commander of the City Watch?" Ned asked, trying to shift his focus from the dark thoughts that plagued him.
Jory gave a modest shrug. "It's hard and honest work, my lord, but I enjoy it well enough. The men are good, most of them at least. Keeping the peace in King's Landing is no small task." He gave a weary chuckle.
Ned studied him for a moment, then nodded. "You'll do your duty, no matter the cost. I've no doubt of that."
Jory's brow furrowed slightly at the cryptic note in Ned's words. "Aye, my lord," he replied slowly. "I'll see it done."
"Good." Ned clasped him on the shoulder, offering a reassuring squeeze. "The city needs men like you, Jory. Now more than ever."
Jory looked at him curiously, but before he could speak, he straightened as if remembering something. "My lord," he said, clearing his throat. "Your presence has been requested at the small council meeting. It is urgent."
Ned stiffened at the mention of the council. "Urgent, you say?"
"Aye, my lord. King Robert is in attendance." Jory's gaze dropped briefly, almost as if in apology. "Ser Barristan and I have been called as well."
Ned nodded, his stomach tightening as he thought of the council chamber, the politicking and the schemes that festered there. "Very well," he said quietly. "Lead the way."
When Ned entered the council chamber, the tension in the room was palpable.
King Robert sat at the head of the table, his expression sour, a cup of wine clutched in one thick hand.
Renly was beside him, his features sharp and watchful, while Varys, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Littlefinger sat in their usual places, their faces unreadable.
Boryn Baratheon stood near the king, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that reminded Ned of Robert in his younger days.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood behind Robert, ever the stoic sentinel.
As Ned took his seat, Robert raised his head, his eyes bloodshot and bleary, but not with drink - at least, not entirely.
His voice came in a low, rumbling growl.
"The whore is pregnant."
For a moment, Ned did not understand. He blinked, looking from Robert to the others around the table. "Whore?" he asked cautiously.
"Daenerys Targaryen," Varys purred, his voice like silk. "The last dragon has taken seed. She is with child, Lord Stark."
Ned's mouth went dry. He had heard rumors, whispers of Daenerys fleeing her brother's shadow, but this… "Is this certain?" he asked, turning his gaze to Varys.
The Spider nodded slowly, his hands folded in his lap. "Quite certain, my lord. She has abandoned Viserys, it seems. The Dothraki are rallying to her, and my little birds tell me she is heavy with child."
Ned felt the weight of Robert's gaze on him, the unspoken command simmering behind those tired eyes.
"You mean to kill her," Ned did little to hide his distaste.
"Kill her before she brings another dragon into the world. I won't sit here and wait for that little bitch to give birth to a boy who'll grow up claiming the Iron Throne as his right."
Ned shook his head, trying to push the madness from his mind.
"She is no threat to you, Robert. She is half a world away, with nothing but a horde of savages at her back. Now with Viserys's influence gone, they are likely to look to the East, not the West."
"The threat is not her," Robert growled. "It's the son. She bears the blood of the dragon, and I'll not see another Targaryen whelp laying claim to my throne. We end this now before it grows."
Ned clenched his jaw. "She is a child herself, Robert, and carrying another. Do you truly mean to murder a mother and her unborn babe?"
Robert slammed his fist onto the table, making the cups rattle. "I mean to do what must be done, Ned. I won't wait for the flames to engulf us. She dies, and the realm is safer for it."
Ser Barristan Selmy, silent until now, spoke up, his voice calm but firm.
"Your Grace," he began, "I swore to protect the innocent. Killing Daenerys Targaryen and her unborn child… it is unnecessary, a cruelty too far. Leave her be. She is of no threat to you."
Robert sneered, but before he could retort, Boryn spoke, his voice sharp. "I cannot say that I am surprised, Ser Barristan. You stood by and did nothing while the Mad King tortured and killed both Rickon and Brandon Stark. And you continued to serve him faithfully in spite of his growing madness. We should call you Ser Barristan the Blind, for all the good your so-called boldness did during that regime."
Ned saw the way the words cut at the old knight, though Barristan's face remained a mask of calm.
Before anyone else could speak, Jory stepped forward, his voice strong but respectful. "Lord Stark and Ser Barristan speak the truth, and I am in agreeance with them. Perhaps the realm would be better served if we focused on matters closer to home. The debt weighs heavily on the crown, and the smallfolk suffer under the burden. Killing Daenerys will not ease their suffering."
The room fell into a brief, uncomfortable silence, but it was short-lived.
Littlefinger leaned forward, smiling that sly smile of his. "Debt or no, the Targaryen girl remains a threat, Lord Stark. The Dothraki may not cross the Narrow Sea today, but a boy with a claim to the Iron Throne will rally many to his cause in time. It's best to nip it in the bud before it flowers into rebellion."
"All threats must be accounted for," Renly stated plainly. "And she is one that should have been dealt with long ago."
Ned felt the heat rising in him, but he struggled to contain it. "And what of honor?" he asked, his voice low, but cutting. "What of the realm's honor, when we murder children in their cradles?"
Robert had heard enough. "Honor?!" he bellowed. "This isn't Pyke! Some battles can only be won with a dagger and a cloak!"
Ned stared at him, the man he had once called friend, and felt the gulf between them widen. Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and unclasped the Hand's badge from his chest.
"I will take no part in this," he said, his voice cold as winter's wind. He placed the badge on the table and stood.
"Ned!" Robert roared. "You walk out of here, you're turning your back on me, the King! I'll have a dagger in your back before long, and if I could, I'd do the stabbing myself!"
But Ned walked away, and he did not turn back.
Cersei
Cersei entered the King's chambers in silence, the firelight flickered dimly across the stone walls, casting a long shadow.
Her husband sat slouched in his chair with a goblet of wine in hand, his face flushed from drink.
Robert Baratheon, once the mighty stag of the battlefield, was now a man weathered and worn by the weight of his crown, his belly bloated, his eyes dulled.
She moved to the table and ran her fingers lightly over the rim of a silver pitcher. "I've heard that Ned Stark has decided to relieve himself of his duties as your Hand."
At her words, Robert's face tightened, and he brought the goblet to his lips again, drinking deep. Wine sloshed over the rim, trailing down his beard, but he did not care.
"Aye," he said after a long pause, his voice rough like dirt. "I shouldn't have yelled at him like that. But gods, he makes it so damned difficult. Stubborn as a mule, that one. Always was. I wish he could see things my way… just once."
He shook his head solemnly, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "But Ned… he never could bend. The man was born with a rod of ice in his spine. Not the only one I've pissed off lately, though." He drained the rest of his goblet and slammed it down on the table.
Cersei arched a brow, intrigued despite herself. "Oh? Who else have you offended?"
Robert's lips twisted into a half-grimace, half-smile, and he leaned back heavily in his chair.
"Boryn."
Her heart skipped a beat at the mention of his name. "Boryn?"
"Aye." Robert let out a bitter chuckle. "The boy's eager to rule. He had the balls to tell me, to my face, that I should abdicate the throne to him. Can you believe that? My own son, telling me to step aside."
Cersei felt a chill creep down her spine, but she kept her face smooth, impassive. "I can believe it," she said calmly, "because he's every bit your son."
Robert barked out a laugh, though there was little joy in it. "That he is. Too much my son, perhaps. Always has to be right, always has to win. He doesn't know the half of it, though."
Cersei moved closer, her fingers tracing the carved edge of the table. "I've heard that Boryn has already begun to exercise his authority. He removed Janos Slynt as Commander of the City Watch and replaced him with Jory Cassel."
"I noticed," Robert said. "And I felt safer for it."
"It was a shrewd move," Cersei said, nodding. "The Northmen are loyal to a fault, they're trained to follow and to do it well. With Jory in command, Boryn will never have to worry about his loyalty being bought. Not like Slynt."
"Aye," Robert muttered, rubbing his eyes. "That little lickspittle always had his nose up someone's arse, didn't he?"
Cersei allowed herself a small smile. She could see the calculation behind Boryn's actions, the way he was positioning himself, subtly but surely, for what was to come. Her son was ambitious, and ambition was a trait she understood well.
Robert glanced at her, his eyes heavy-lidded from the wine, but his voice sober when he asked, "Do you think that he's ready? To take the throne I mean."
For a moment, Cersei said nothing, letting the question hang between them like a noose waiting to tighten. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting its wavering light across Robert's weathered face.
Finally, she spoke.
"Nobody is ever truly ready to wield ultimate power. They either embrace it, or they run from it."
Robert grunted, leaning forward to refill his goblet.
"He'll embrace it," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "More than I ever did. It's a frightening thing to admit, but sometimes… sometimes I think he'll oppose me for it if I don't give it up soon."
There was something raw in his voice that took Cersei by surprise. Robert Baratheon, the usurper, the Demon Of The Trident, was afraid of his own son.
Cersei's lips curled in a faint smile, though she kept it hidden behind her hand as she adjusted her sleeve.
"You should be proud," she said, her voice carefully measured. "After all, you had little to do with his upbringing. And he's turned out better for it."
"Stannis," Robert muttered darkly. "Stannis has done a fine job of raising him. Gods know I didn't. I'm a piss-poor father, Cersei."
Her smile widened. "At least you admit it now."
Robert shot her a look. "What difference does it make now? Admitting it won't change anything between us, will it?"
"Nothing ever changes between us, Robert." She tilted her head, watching him. "You drink, I smile. We've both played our parts well."
Robert gave a tired sigh and leaned back in his chair. "Who will I name as Hand now that Stark's run off?" he asked, as though the thought had only just struck him. "I've half a mind to pin the damn thing on Jaime."
Cersei couldn't help but laugh, the sound bright and sharp in the dim room. "Jaime? He's not serious enough."
"Aye," Robert grumbled. "Then there's your father… Tywin. But if I give it to him, I might as well hand the whole bloody realm over. Tywin doesn't serve anyone but Tywin."
Cersei pursed her lips thoughtfully. Her father would be a far better Hand than any of the fools Robert had surrounded himself with, but she knew her husband's pride would never allow it.
"Father's not a man to be content with playing second to anyone."
"No," Robert agreed, his face darkening. "And gods, that's all this realm has become. A bunch of lords scheming for more power, while their enemies gather in the East. I fear the realm won't hold together without a war to bind it. Without a purpose."
Cersei moved to the window, looking out over the darkened courtyard below. The wind stirred the heavy curtains, carrying with it the scent of the sea, salt and rot mingling in the air.
"Our marriage unites the realm," she said softly, more to the night than to Robert.
They both shared a bitter laugh at that.
"Oh how I wish that were true," Robert muttered, rubbing at his temple. "But it's not enough, is it? Political marriages don't hold kingdoms together. A king has to prove himself, prove his worth, every damned day." He paused, staring into his goblet.
"And I haven't done that. Not since I took the crown. I haven't been a good king, or a good father… or a good husband."
Cersei's smile turned cold, her eyes hard. "I see you can finally admit that much as well."
Robert looked up at her, his expression tired, as though the weight of the years had finally caught up to him. "Does that give you some measure of comfort?"
"No," Cersei said, her voice flat. "It changes nothing."
She turned and walked away, leaving Robert alone with his wine and his regrets.
Robert was a fool, a man who had once been a warrior but now clung to the past like a tattered banner.
But Boryn was different. He was young, strong, ambitious.
And soon, if the gods were kind, the realm would have a new king.
Eddard
Ned stood in the quiet of his chambers, surrounded by half-packed trunks and scattered cloaks, a cold wind slipping through the narrow window slits of the Tower of the Hand.
The weight of his decision lingered in the air, heavier than the iron-clad oaths that had once bound him to the office of Hand of the King.
He could feel it in his bones, in the way the very stones beneath his feet seemed to pull at him. The resignation had been a bitter pill, but necessary.
His fingers moved with the mechanical precision of a soldier as he folded a thick woolen cloak, the sigil of the direwolf stitched in black and gray.
His thoughts turned to his children.
Sansa and Arya would be furious at the sudden departure, especially Sansa, who had taken a liking to court life. But there was little choice in the matter - they had to depart.
The door opened behind him, the heavy groan of its hinges pulling him from his reverie.
Jory entered, his face a mix of concern and steadfast duty.
"My lord," Jory said, standing just inside the doorway. His voice was firm, but there was a trace of unease.
Ned turned to face him, nodding. "Jory."
Jory took a step closer, lowering his voice. "I've made arrangements for your safety."
Ned's brow furrowed. "My safety?"
Jory nodded, his expression hardening. "You know as well as I do that the moment you stepped down as Hand, you made enemies, and not just the Lannisters. I have twenty good men under my command, loyal to you. They'll see to your safety, as well as that of your daughters."
A wave of gratitude washed over Ned, but he pushed it aside. This wasn't Jory's fight. The City Watch had its own duties, and Jory's loyalty to him was a complication he could ill afford. "You've done enough already, Jory. Your place is here, in King's Landing, not at my side."
Jory's half-smile returned, though it carried a sadness with it. "I knew you'd say that, my lord. But I wasn't asking for your leave. Five men then. That's all I can spare." His tone was insistent, though respectful.
Ned sighed, rubbing his brow. His instincts told him to refuse again, to insist that he needed no guards. But the truth was, King's Landing had become more dangerous than he had ever anticipated. If having a handful of trusted men would speed his departure and keep his daughters safe, so be it.
"Very well," he said quietly. "Five men."
Jory dipped his head in acknowledgment. "I'll see them ready. They'll leave at your command."
As Jory turned to leave, another figure appeared in the doorway, draped in shadows like a serpent poised to strike. Littlefinger, with his sly smile and mocking gaze, lingered for a moment before stepping fully into the room.
"My lord Stark," he said smoothly, his voice as oily as ever. "What an exit you've made. I must say, the city will miss you, though some more than others, I suspect."
Ned stiffened, the familiar knot of distrust tightening in his gut. "What do you want, Lord Baelish?"
Littlefinger's smirk never wavered. "Just a moment of your time. In private, if you don't mind."
Jory cast a glance at Ned, who gave a small nod. "Wait outside," Ned instructed. With a bow, Jory left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Littlefinger circled the room slowly, his fingers brushing against the edges of Ned's half-packed belongings. "A man in your position shouldn't be so hasty, Lord Stark. Once a man leaves the city, it's far more difficult to return."
"I've no intention of returning," Ned replied, his voice cold. "And if you've come to waste my time with riddles, I'll thank you to leave."
"Oh, I have no riddles today, my lord," Littlefinger said, a gleam in his eye as he leaned against a post. "Only news, and perhaps a piece of advice. Your wife has taken a rather bold step, one that may complicate things for you."
Ned felt his chest tighten. "What are you talking about?"
"Your wife, Catelyn. She's taken Tyrion Lannister into custody. Held him under suspicion for conspiring to kill your son, Bran." Littlefinger's words slithered out, each one wrapped in poisonous implication.
Ned blinked, the shock hitting him like a wave crashing against a rocky shore. "Is this true?"
Littlefinger shrugged, his expression almost sympathetic. "I'm afraid so. She's planning on holding him at Winterfell, or so the whispers say."
Ned's thoughts raced, the implications of such an action crashing down on him. Tyrion was a Lannister, and the Lannisters had never been a family to suffer insult lightly.
"She must have thought it the right thing to do," Littlefinger said with a sigh. "But there's more, I'm afraid."
Ned's eyes narrowed. "What more could there be?"
Littlefinger crossed the room, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Before Jon Arryn's death, he stumbled upon a rather troubling fact. It seems that King Robert has been somewhat… prolific in his dalliances. Sired quite a few bastards, as it turns out."
Ned's brow furrowed. "Bastards? What of it? Robert was never a man to deny his appetites."
"True," Littlefinger said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But one in particular may be of interest to you. A boy with a rather striking resemblance to young Boryn. He lives here in King's Landing."
Ned's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Boryn. The boy had always reminded him of Robert in his youth, though he had never given it much thought beyond that. But there was something in Littlefinger's tone, something dark lurking beneath his words. "Go on."
Littlefinger smiled, a predator's smile. "Jon Arryn's inquiries were cut short, but not before he discovered something rather… damning. Boryn was sent off to Dragonstone to ward with Stannis, and the Queen has kept the Prince at arm's length, unlike her other children."
Ned's stomach twisted. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Littlefinger said slowly, "that it is possible Boryn is of Robert's lineage, but not of Cersei's."
Ned's mind reeled. The implications of what Littlefinger was suggesting were too vast, too dangerous. If Boryn was a bastard like any other then the truth was clear - none of Robert's children had a legitimate claim to the Iron Throne.
Littlefinger stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Before you make any rash decisions, there's one more thing you should know. I've already informed the true heir of his rightful place."
Ned's eyes snapped to Littlefinger's. "Who do you consider the true heir?"
Littlefinger's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with secrets. "Why, Stannis, of course."
Stannis Baratheon. The name echoed in Ned's mind like a tolling bell.
He had always been a hard and unyielding man, but just. If Stannis knew the truth of Robert's bastards, if he knew that his claim was stronger now than ever before...
Ned's hand clenched into a fist. "Take me to this other bastard. I shall confirm the truth with my own eyes."