Through the narrow, lofty windows of the Red Keep's vast Throne Room, the final rays of the setting sun slanted inward, casting long, dark-red stripes across the cold stone floor and walls.
Once, enormous dragon skulls had loomed over this hall, their hollow eye sockets watching all who entered with silent menace. Robert Baratheon despised such reminders of the Targaryens, and so the skulls had long since been dragged away and discarded into the shadowy underground tunnels beneath the castle.
In their place now hung vast tapestries, rich with greens and browns, depicting kings and lords at the hunt—stags brought low by spears, boars pierced by arrows, riders laughing beneath autumn leaves. Yet in Eddard Stark's eyes, the Throne Room was still stained crimson. No matter how many tapestries were hung or skulls removed, the hall remained soaked in blood, just as it had been the first time he saw Jaime Lannister seated casually upon the Iron Throne, sword across his knees.
Eddard Stark sat upon that same throne now, and everything about it felt wrong.
The king had not yet ridden out to the Kingswood. Robert had been drunk for days on end, drowning himself in wine, feasts, and women. The white hart had not yet appeared, or so the hunters claimed, and so the king lingered in King's Landing, indulging himself without restraint. Matters of state bored him; rulership weighed upon him like chains he no longer wished to carry.
As for the infant girl Eddard had mentioned—Robert's reaction was entirely predictable. The king himself, Eddard thought grimly, was still a child: willful, selfish, and ruled by impulse. How could such a man be expected to care for the fate of an infant he had never seen?
Today, Eddard wore a simple white linen tunic embroidered with the direwolf of House Stark upon his chest. Over it hung a black wool cloak clasped at the neck with a silver badge shaped like a hand—the symbol of his office as Hand of the King. Black, white, and grey. To Eddard, these were the only colors that mattered, the only shades of truth.
"What a cursed, uncomfortable seat," he thought.
The Iron Throne was not a chair so much as a cruel mockery of one. Forged from twisted blades and jagged steel, it bristled with spikes and edges, its back rising like the teeth of some monstrous beast. There was no way to lean back without risking injury. The throne demanded vigilance, pain, and blood.
Around him sat the remaining members of the small council and high officials: the aged Grand Maester, Varys with his powdered face and unreadable smile, and several lords of lesser influence. Renly Baratheon was absent, no doubt drinking himself senseless alongside the king.
Within the Throne Room, hierarchy was rigid and unforgiving. Only the royal family and the highest officials were permitted to sit. All others stood or knelt as required. Petitioners clustered near the great doors; knights, nobles, and ladies stood beneath the tapestries; common folk were kept farther back, spilling into the corridors beyond. Gold Cloaks and guards in grey stood motionless, armored and imposing, their presence a reminder of the crown's authority.
Eddard looked upon the petitioners and felt a familiar heaviness settle in his chest.
The rise and fall of kingdoms always crushed the smallfolk first.
He had done everything in his power to avoid war. Yet his wife's rash actions had hastened its approach, and Tywin Lannister had clearly been preparing for conflict long before that. This war, Eddard knew, was no sudden accident.
Before him knelt villagers from the Riverlands: men, women, and children alike. They wore rags soaked with blood and mud, their bodies thin, their faces hollow with terror. Behind them stood three knights who had escorted them to court.
"Are you certain they were bandits?" Varys asked mildly. Not a flicker of emotion crossed the eunuch's face.
"Bandits?" Ser Raymund Darry scoffed. "Of course they were bandits. Lannister bandits."
At the mention of that name, the air in the hall tightened. Everyone present knew the power of House Lannister—and the ruthless reputation of Lord Tywin.
Ser Karyl Vance stepped forward. Wine-red birthmark marred one side of his otherwise handsome face, and his eyes were filled with grief. He gestured toward the kneeling villagers.
"Lord Stark," he said hoarsely, "these are all that remain of Shear Village. The rest… like the people of Wendwater and Bitch's Pool… they are dead."
"Rise," Eddard commanded.
He never trusted words spoken from a kneeling man. "All of you. Rise."
One by one, the villagers stood. Their clothing looked painfully out of place amid the marble and banners of King's Landing. Eddard studied their faces carefully; judgment demanded that he see them as they truly were.
They spoke, slowly at first, then with growing anguish.
A bald, thick-armed man in a brewer's apron described how armored riders had burned his tavern to the ground.
A farmer followed, his voice shaking as he told of fields trampled, livestock slaughtered, and his home reduced to ash.
"They rode my apprentice down," said a short, broad-shouldered blacksmith, his head wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. "Chased him like it was sport. Laughing. Jabbing him with spears until he fell. Then… the biggest one killed him."
A young girl lifted her tear-streaked face toward the throne. "Your Grace… they killed my mother. And then they… they…" Her voice broke, and she dissolved into quiet sobs.
Shear Village, Eddard realized, had been fortunate.
In Wendwater, the villagers had barricaded themselves inside their manor, but it was made of wood. Straw had been piled against the walls, and the house set ablaze. Those who fled the flames were cut down by arrows, women and infants alike.
These attackers had been careful. They wore no Lannister colors, carried no banners. Yet their fine horses, heavy armor, and steel weapons betrayed them. These were no common brigands.
The truth was plain.
The Mountain.
Still, Eddard listened carefully. However obvious the culprit, duty demanded proof and action. Someone would need to be sent to the Riverlands once more.
The knights from the Riverlands burned with fury. Blood, they believed, could only be washed away with blood.
For a moment, Eddard considered leading the force himself. Yet he also needed to ride with the king, to gauge Robert's thoughts away from the council chamber. Without the hunt, such a conversation would never happen.
In the North, a man who passed sentence carried out the execution himself. But King's Landing was not Winterfell, and Eddard's burdens were many.
"Forgive my weakness," he thought bitterly.
---
Far across the Narrow Sea, Khal Drogo reined his horse to a halt.
Before him rose massive earthworks, high and unyielding, ringed by deep moats. They reminded him of the walls of Myr itself—cunning defenses built by sheep men who feared the scream of hooves. Scorpions and trebuchets lined the ramparts, waiting.
Defenses were a coward's strategy. But the Dothraki dared not approach the sea, and so the walls must be broken.
Drogo's dark eyes fixed upon the banners fluttering above the earthworks: quartered standards bearing dragons, warhammers, broken chains, and wolves.
"Whose banners?" he demanded.
"The King of Myr," his bloodrider replied. "And beneath them—the banner of his great general. Jorah."
Drogo smiled.
"Break them. I will crush that king's bones and take his bride."
He was the Khal of Khals, taller than any warrior, his bronze skin gleaming, his long black braid heavy with bells that chimed softly. Fifty thousand screamers rode with him.
"Send the slaves forward," Drogo ordered calmly. "Fill the moats."
From the walls, Jorah Mormont watched the black tide gather.
"This will be my last war," he thought, and wondered if his father yet lived in the cold North.
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