The rising sun cast pale gold across the ridgeline as King Robert Baratheon finished speaking, his booming laughter echoing down the slope. The morning air was cold and sharp, but the King's triumph was warm and unmistakable. He looked at Eddard Stark with the smug satisfaction of a man who believed he had proven a point to an old friend.
Eddard, however, remained stiff and silent, his expression dark as winter stone.
Seeing his old friend's sullen face, Robert laughed all the harder.
But suddenly, something tugged at the King's memory. He turned and glanced at the boy walking below the ridge beside Karl—a skinny, awkward lad with Stark-gray eyes and the quietness of a shadow.
"Speaking of which," Robert said, nudging Ned with an elbow, "you've never told me who that boy's mother is."
Ned's jaw tightened.
Robert ignored the warning signs and continued in his usual careless tone.
"Let me guess. Becca? No… she was mine. Gods, that hair, those eyes—"
"As for your Aliana? No… you mentioned her once, right? Meryll?"
"Her name is Vera," Ned snapped, cutting the King off sharply. "And I don't want to talk about her."
Robert blinked, momentarily taken aback.
Vera? That was never the name he remembered hearing…
But seeing the ice settling over Eddard Stark's face, Robert wisely let the matter drop. He only smirked, amused that he had managed to irritate his otherwise stoic friend.
The King pulled a folded parchment from his belt.
"Alright, alright. I didn't drag you here to talk about bastards."
He handed the letter to Ned. "Last night, Varys sent a message from King's Landing."
The name alone made Ned's brows draw together. The bald eunuch, perfumed and sly, flashed into his mind. Ned had never been comfortable with Varys—not with his whispers, nor his secrets.
But he took the letter anyway and opened it, his heart tightening with old soldier's instinct.
Fortunately, it was not news of immediate battlefield disaster.
But the more Ned read, the deeper his frown became.
"What's the source of this information?" he asked sharply.
Before Robert could answer, the narrative shifted below them.
The rising sun's rays combed across the plains, illuminating a broad swath of barren brown earth ahead of Karl and Jon. The hills were low and gentle, the landscape desolate but strangely serene. Karl paused to admire it, enjoying the silence before the day grew busy with marching.
High on the ridge above them, Ned Stark was staring at Robert with a hardened expression.
"Do you remember Ser Jorah Mormont?"
"Remember him?" Robert barked out a harsh laugh. "I'll never forget that man!"
Ned felt his stomach twist at the name.
The Mormont family of Bear Island had always been fiercely loyal—poor, remote, cold, but unwavering. Lady Maege Mormont had ridden south to answer his call, bringing her daughter with her. Two hundred poorly armored warriors had followed them, yet their courage matched any lord's army.
Their honor was known throughout the North.
But Ser Jorah… Ser Jorah had stained that honor.
Bear Island's lands were harsh, preyed upon by raiders, its people enduring constant hardship. When Jeor Mormont gave up leadership of the family to take the black and serve the Night's Watch, Jorah inherited the title.
And Jorah, wanting more coin than his land could provide, made a choice that marked him forever.
He sold poachers to slave traders.
Slavery was forbidden in Westeros—an absolute crime.
Poaching itself was illegal, as large game belonged to the lord of the land. But to sell men into chains for profit… such a deed was unforgivable to Eddard Stark.
He had crossed half a kingdom to bring the man to justice.
By the time he arrived, Jorah had fled across the Narrow Sea.
That had been five years ago.
Now hearing his name again brought shock and disgust back to Ned's face.
"Ser Jorah is in Pentos," Robert said with a dismissive wave, "begging for royal pardon. Varys has… made use of him."
Ned's mouth twisted.
"So a slaver becomes a royal spy?"
He threw the letter back at Robert.
"I'd rather he were a corpse."
Robert scowled.
"Varys says a spy is more useful than a corpse. And in this, I agree."
Ned's disapproval only deepened, but he knew there was no purpose in that argument. The King, impatient, pointed Ned back to the letter.
"Forget Jorah. Tell me what you think about that."
Ned read the line again.
Daenerys Targaryen.
Married.
To a Dothraki horse lord.
"So what?" Ned said flatly. "Should we send a wedding gift?"
Robert's face twisted with instant fury.
"A wedding gift?" he shouted. "No! I think a knife would be better—a sharp one, in the hand of a brave man!"
The wind carried their rising voices down the ridge. Below, Jon Snow stirred, hearing the argument but unable to make out the words.
"Lord Karl," Jon whispered sleepily, rubbing his eyes, "why do the King and my father always argue? What are they talking about?"
Karl, who had been debating whether to relieve himself in the bushes, suddenly became alert. His eyes glimmered with mischief.
He stood, pulled a dry blade of grass from the ground, and traced a circle around Jon with its tip.
"Jon," he asked in a low, thoughtful tone, "if you had the chance to become a Kingsguard… would you take it?"
Jon blinked.
"What?"
Karl didn't repeat himself.
Jon hesitated, then answered honestly:
"Of course. There aren't many knights in the North, but I know the Kingsguard is the greatest honor in the Seven Kingdoms. Even more than the Night's Watch."
Jon had no idea why his heart sped up slightly when he said "Kingsguard." He didn't yet understand the truths hidden in his blood, or the tangled web that tied his life to the Iron Throne.
But he knew the stories. The white cloaks. The glory. The valor.
And yes—he admired it.
Karl watched him with an unreadable smile.
Then, with the same dry blade of grass, he made a "sewing" gesture across his own lips.
"Well then," Karl said with amusement, "the first thing you must learn as a future Kingsguard is this: curb your curiosity… and close your mouth."
Jon's face flushed red in embarrassment.
"And unless the King asks for your opinion," Karl added, "the wisest thing you can do is remain silent."
Understanding dawned on Jon. He clamped his mouth shut immediately.
Above them, the argument reached its breaking point.
Robert thundered, "I'll say it again—I will NOT let that sickly Arryn boy become Warden of the East!"
Eddard's voice countered, sharp and steady.
"He is Jon Arryn's son."
"He is a child, Ned! Weak, frail—a feather could knock him over! And now that the Targaryens are in bed with the Dothraki, I will not entrust a quarter of my armies to a coughing little boy!"
Someone had to command the East. And Robert had already refused to name the late Lord Arryn's heir.
Ned pressed on.
"Then one of your brothers must take the role. Stannis proved his worth in the Siege of Storm's End. He would manage the responsibility well."
At the mention of Stannis, Robert's face wrinkled in discomfort and he said nothing.
Ned softened his tone.
"Unless you have already promised this title to someone else."
Robert glared sideways at him—caught, cornered, irritated.
He turned away, looking down the slope where Jon and Karl stood, the boys completely unaware of the storm brewing above them.
Finally, Robert muttered:
"What if I said—"
His voice hardened.
"—that it's true?"
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