Through the narrow, high windows of the vast throne room of the Red Keep, the fading light of sunset spilled across the floor, casting dark red streaks along the walls.
A dragon's head had once hung high in the hall, its hollow eye sockets a frightening sight. But Robert had never liked such things, and the skull of the beast had long since been thrown into the underground tunnels.
Now the stone walls were draped in tapestries of green and brown, vividly depicting hunting scenes. Yet in Eddard's eyes, the entire hall still seemed soaked in blood-red, just as it had the day he saw Jaime seated upon the Iron Throne.
Eddard sat upon the Iron Throne, and everything felt wrong.
The king had yet to depart for the Kingswood. He had spent the past few days drunk, and the White Hart had not yet appeared, leaving him free to continue his indulgence in King's Landing. In truth, the king had little interest in matters of state.
As for the infant girl Eddard had mentioned, he doubted she would earn the king's favor. Perhaps the king himself was still a child, willful and selfish.
Today, Eddard wore a white linen tunic embroidered with the House Stark direwolf across the chest. A black wool cloak was clasped at his neck with a silver hand brooch, marking his office. Black, white, and gray, the three shades of truth.
What a wretchedly uncomfortable chair, he thought.
The Iron Throne was forged of steel, a grotesque seat of twisted metal, bristling with jagged spikes and cruel edges. Its back, lined with teeth-like barbs, made it impossible to lean against.
Eddard remained seated on the throne. The remaining councilors were present, including the Grand Maester and Varys. Great Lord Renly was likely still drinking with the king and had not come.
Within the hall, aside from the royal family and a handful of high officials, everyone else stood or knelt in strict deference. Petitioners clustered near the great doors. Knights, nobles, and ladies stood beneath the tapestries, while common folk lingered in the corridors. Armed guards in gold and gray cloaks stood rigid and imposing.
Looking down at the petitioners, Eddard felt a deep ache in his chest. In times of rise or fall, it was always the smallfolk who suffered. He had labored to prevent war, yet his wife's rash actions had hastened its coming. Tywin, too, had long been preparing for it.
The villagers from the Riverlands knelt on one knee, men and women, young and old alike. Their clothes were tattered, their bodies stained with blood, their faces carved with fear. The three knights who had brought them here stood behind them.
"Are you certain they are bandits?" Varys asked. The eunuch's face revealed nothing.
"Bandits? Of course they are bandits. Lannister bandits," Raymun Darry said with disdain.
At the mention of Lannister, tension tightened across the hall. Everyone knew the power of House Lannister, and the ruthlessness of Great Lord Tywin.
With sorrow in his eyes, Ser Karyl Vance, who might have been handsome if not for the wine-red birthmark on his face, pointed at the kneeling villagers.
"Lord Eddard, this is all that remains of Sherrer Village. The rest, like those of Wendish Town and Mummer's Ford, have all been slaughtered."
"Rise," Eddard commanded. He had never trusted a man's words when spoken on his knees. "All of you, rise."
Eddard studied the grief-stricken crowd. Before passing judgment, he needed to see every face clearly. He listened as they spoke, one after another. Though Ser Raymond had already told him some of it, hearing it from their own mouths made the horror of it all even clearer.
The villagers of Sherrer slowly rose. Their ragged clothes stood in stark contrast to the splendor of King's Landing, and every word they spoke told of slaughter.
The first to speak was a bald, heavyset man in a brewer's apron. The innkeeper's home had been burned to the ground by bandit knights.
Then came a poor farmer. His land and house had been reduced to ashes, his cattle and livestock slaughtered.
These were no ordinary bandits.
"They even trampled my apprentice to death," said a short, stocky man with a blacksmith's muscles, his head wrapped in bandages. He had clearly changed into his best clothes for the royal audience, but his trousers were full of patches, and his cloak was dusty from the road. "They rode around on horseback laughing, chasing him back and forth, jabbing at him with their spears like it was some kind of game. The boy just kept running, screaming the whole time, until he finally fell, and the biggest one ran him through with a spear."
The girl kneeling on the floor stretched her neck to look up at Eddard high above her. "My lord, they killed my mother too. And then they... they..." Her voice faded, as if she had forgotten what she meant to say, and she simply began to cry.
Sherrer Village had been one of the lucky ones. The people of Wendish Town had fled into a manor, but it was built of wood, so the invaders piled straw against it and burned them alive inside. Some threw open the doors and tried to run from the flames, only for the raiders to shoot them down with arrows. They did not spare even women holding nursing babes.
These bandits were not complete fools. They wore no red cloaks, carried no lion banners, and bore no obvious insignia on their persons or gear. But they rode fine horses, wore armor, and carried castle-forged swords and longspears. These were no ordinary outlaws. The answer was already plain.
As Eddard listened to their testimony, all the evidence pointed to that huge, terrifying man, The Mountain...
He listened carefully to every word. Obvious as it seemed, someone still had to be sent to the Riverlands.
The three knights leading the Riverlands party were burning with outrage. Blood had been spilled in the Riverlands, and they longed to wash it clean with blood in return.
Eddard wanted to lead the force himself, yet he also meant to ride with the king on the hunt and use the chance to judge Robert's attitude. If not for the hunt, it would be hard for the two of them to have a proper talk.
The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword himself. That was the way of House Stark. But this was not Winterfell, and far too many demands pressed on him here.
Forgive me for this helplessness, Eddard thought. He had to accompany the king into the Kingswood and make use of this rare opportunity to speak with him.
...
Khal Drogo stared at the yellow earthen rampart that had risen before him. It was solid and hard to cross, seemingly as high as the walls of Myr, with a deep trench running below it. These cunning Myrmen had resorted to deep ditches and high walls.
The rampart formed a curved ring of protection around Myr, stretching from one seaward side of the city to the other. Scorpions and catapults had already been set in place atop it.
A fixed defensive line was foolish by nature, but since the Dothraki dared not go near the sea, they had no choice now but to smash through the line by force.
"What banners are those?" Drogo asked, spotting the quartered banner flying above the earthwork: a red dragon on black, a warhammer on black, a slave breaking chains, and a surging wolf pack.
Khal Drogo was immense, a full head taller than his own warriors, yet his movements were swift and light. His skin gleamed like polished copper, and heavy gold and bronze bells hung from his thick beard.
"Whose banner is that?" Drogo asked.
"It is the banner of the King of Myr, the quartered banner. There is another as well, which should belong to the King of Myr's general, Jorah," one of Drogo's bloodriders said. Beneath the highest quartered banner, there was indeed another, deep green, bearing a standing bear.
"Take him alive. I want to smash that king's bones and seize his bride."
"You can do it, Khal."
Drogo's braid was black and glossy as the midnight sky, slicked with scented oil so that it looked heavy, with many small metal bells tied into it that rang when he moved. His hair hung past his waist, beyond his hips, the end brushing against his thighs.
Khal Drogo was the Khal of khals, the mightiest horselord of the Dothraki Sea. The fortifications ahead were formidable, but Drogo's past victories filled his followers with confidence. Khal Drogo had never known defeat.
"Khal, should we raid other parts of the Disputed Lands and lure out the main force of the milk men?" one of his riders asked.
"Destroy their city. Grind down their courage," Drogo said confidently. He had brought fifty thousand screamers, and that was his greatest source of confidence.
There was no need for any tactic of drawing the enemy out. He meant to win a victory beyond compare.
"Send in the Lamb Men and the slaves. Have them fill the trench."
Jorah also saw the Dothraki below, like a boundless black cloud.
"I will treat this war as my last, Father," Jorah thought, recalling his father, who was likely still far away in the distant North.