"Damn it, Ned, you are always right—"
Facing his old friend Ned's earnest persuasion, the once-excited, drink-fueled Robert drooped and loosened the fists he had been clenching.
How could he not know all this himself?
Why did he not choose to straightforwardly legitimize Kal in the name of his King's authority, let his name become Kal Baratheon, make him the first heir to the Iron Throne, and make him a Prince of House Baratheon?
Was it not precisely because of these reasons?
What Eddard saw, he could see just as clearly.
He even saw it more clearly than Eddard.
For only by sitting upon that hateful seat could one truly see how disgusting and loathsome the faces beneath the throne really were.
And why had he, all this time, been probing from the side, wanting Eddard Stark to support him in legitimizing Kal El—was it not for this very reason?
As long as the North declared its support plainly, combined with Kal's own western lands, now shattered but still his, and the decisions of the East, which would inevitably be neutral by then—Kal's realm would be stable by at least half.
But unfortunately, Eddard Stark did not wish to take this risk.
He would not place the realm upon a knife's edge for the sake of the King's preferences.
Hearing the grievance and dissatisfaction in Robert's words, Eddard could only let out another deep sigh.
"Robert, you love him, but your love should not take this form."
"You always say you never wished to be King. Perhaps you should also let go of Kal, give him some freedom—let his House El become, in the true sense, one of the great noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms."
"And at that time, House El will also be the most loyal subjects of House Baratheon."
"Because the Baratheons and he are brothers in blood, all flowing from the blood within your own body."
Having made his decision, Eddard Stark also became resolute.
He understood exactly what Robert felt toward Kal.
It was a father's guilt-laden love for a child.
And at the same time, the retaliatory choice of a man who had suffered the most venomous betrayal.
And even more, on this child he had never paid attention to before, he now saw all the hopes he had dreamed of, as though they were the fruition of every dream he had ever entrusted.
It could be said that to Robert, Kal was the most delicious fruit he had unwittingly planted in his life—but one that had grown in the end.
He was not wrong, but unfortunately, he was the King.
"Heh—" At Eddard's words, Robert let out a cold laugh.
Then he stood up and snatched back the gold rose pendant he had thrown into Eddard Stark's arms.
Opening the hidden clasp and looking at the beauty concealed within the rose petals, Robert's eyes grew deeper and deeper.
"Ned, I have already forgotten what Lyanna looked like. Tell me, does this Highgarden Rose truly resemble her?"
Robert asked in a drifting tone. Though his gaze rested on the pendant in his hand, his eyes were unfocused and hollow.
He was recalling the person he had loved most in his life, yet no matter what, he could not remember her face.
Seeing this man—drunk, excitedly wanting him to support him, yet through sheer will able to remain clear despite the drink—
Eddard Stark sighed in his heart.
Just now he had not even looked at how beautiful the girl in the pendant truly was, but he knew perfectly well what the real Margaery Tyrell looked like.
So he spoke.
"No, she looks nothing like her."
Eddard Stark replied directly without the slightest hesitation.
Hearing Ned's words, Robert laughed.
"Is that so?"
"I knew it. No one in this world can compare to her."
"It seems in this lifetime I will never have the chance to wed a girl of House Stark."
"In that case, let Sansa marry Kal."
"Let him fulfill my dream."
...
After Eddard agreed to his request, Robert sank into sleep with a sense of relief.
This time he truly fell asleep, and he slept exceptionally soundly.
However, when the Hand stepped out of the royal tent, his eyes were filled with heaviness.
Because just a while ago, he had felt the same way Robert did.
Only, unlike Robert, he was not actually the father of his own bastard son.
Yet they shared the same love.
So he refused Jon's request to become the Commander of the City Watch, and he told him the greatest secret of his parentage.
"My lord."
Jory Cassel waited for Eddard outside the camp, and the moment he saw his lord, he greeted him warmly.
Eddard Stark nodded indifferently, took the reins Jory handed over, then mounted his horse with a heavy heart and rode back toward the city.
He did not have the king's leisure; every day he had much work to do.
So he returned to the Tower of the Hand every night.
Yet the night was long, and naturally it concealed many secrets.
Varys clasped his hands inside his sleeves, tilting his head back as he looked at the enormous skull of a great dragon before him.
This was the skull of the dragon Balerion, now discarded in this deep and shadowed cellar, never seeing the light of day.
As the dragon ridden by Aegon the Conqueror during the Conquest, it was a symbol of absolute might, creator of countless tragedies, known as the "Black Dread."
Being the largest of all the dragons the Targaryen family ever owned, its maw was astonishingly vast, its teeth sharp as swords.
Even as a mere skeleton placed here, it still did nothing to diminish one's imagination of the majesty it possessed when still alive.
But now, aside from the pitch-black dragon bones placed before him, nothing else remained.
On the walls of the cellar, the torches burned quietly, their dim and feeble light shining still, and Varys simply watched this astonishingly large skeleton in silence.
But just as Varys silently gazed at the skull of Balerion the Black Dread, no one knew what he was thinking.
From within the tunnel behind him, hidden in the darkness, there suddenly came a few rhythmic knocking sounds.
As a vast network of secret passages and tunnels beneath the Red Keep of King's Landing, this place was unknown to most; everything here was buried deep underground, becoming a secret.
Only the Spider could fully explore this lair and know all its secrets.
Varys was jolted from his thoughts and turned his head.
In the darkness, a fat man with golden hair and a forked beard, dressed in a reddish-brown silk robe, approached while holding a torch.
Under the torchlight, it was clear that every one of his fingers wore a ring.
There were red-gold ones, white-silver ones, some set with rubies, sapphires, and even tiger's eye with yellow stripes, each ring gleaming brilliantly under the firelight.
Looking at this radiance that remained striking even in the dim light, Varys did not move the hands hidden within his sleeves.
He merely turned around and said calmly, "I thought you would come a little later—"
"I nearly got lost. Seven hells, these tunnels—who knows how they were built in the first place."
The moment the newcomer saw Varys, he began to complain, then hurried forward.
His body was extremely fat, yet when he walked, his steps were light.
He kept his weight on his heels, moving like a water dancer.
Hearing his complaints, Varys showed no expression, and only said mildly, "I left marks for you. They will guide you in the correct direction."
"I only hope the news and advice you bring next will also point me in the right direction," the man shrugged, grumbling casually before he stuck the torch into a hole in the wall. "Speak, Varys. What should we do next?"
"I cannot delay much longer. Daenerys Targaryen has already been pregnant for three months."
After placing the torch, the fat man stepped closer, the light illuminating him—who else could he be but Illyrio Mopatis, the magister of the Free City of Pentos.
After asking this, his expression darkened heavily.
Then he continued to complain.
"The Dothraki have stayed in the Free City of Pentos long enough. The merchants can no longer trade with them, and the people of Pentos live in terror day and night, utterly miserable."
"You cannot imagine how much wickedness I see the moment I open my eyes each day."
"And most importantly, I have already spent enough money."
Illyrio Mopatis said this while looking at Varys, his words full of heaviness.
Clearly, this was not good news.
Hearing Illyrio's words, Varys also furrowed his brows.
"We indeed have no reason to keep them in Pentos any longer, Illyrio. No one would have known that this sudden war would end in such a manner—"
Varys spoke, and he could not help letting out a sigh.
"The wedding between Khal Drogo and Daenerys Targaryen is over. By rights they need to return to the holy city of the Dothraki, Vaes Dothrak, where she must once more present herself before the dosh khaleen."
"And the pregnant Khaleesi must also take part in the stallion heart ceremony. Daenerys must return and, under the watch of the dosh khaleen, eat the heart of the stallion."
Hearing Varys's words, Illyrio also let out a cold snort.
"Perhaps they have already set out by now."
"Getting them to wait even a little during the war between the Lannisters and the Baratheons was already the result of my using every trick I possess."
Seeing him say this, Varys could only fall silent.
He knew Illyrio was correct. To make Khal Drogo, who ruled the largest khalasar in the Dothraki Sea and commanded more than forty thousand warriors, remain in Pentos for so long after marrying Daenerys Targaryen truly had required Illyrio to exhaust every means.
Under normal circumstances, he had no reason to tarry here, and his staying would inevitably place tremendous pressure on Pentos.
Whether it was the daily lives of Pentos's own inhabitants or outside commercial trade, both would inevitably be affected.
Illyrio had to weigh the gains and losses among these matters, and one could imagine just how difficult that was.
After all, a single outward excuse was not enough.
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