Eddard Stark's sleep was shattered before dawn. A frantic squire pounded on his chamber door, dragging him out of the warm furs and into the biting chill of the northern morning. The King was waiting.
When Ned reached the stables, his saddled mount was waiting. The King was already mounted, swathed in a massive, heavy fur cloak and thick brown leather gloves, looking every inch a fat, irritable bear perched atop a destrier.
"Wake up, Stark!" Robert roared, his breath pluming in the freezing air. "Wake up! We have matters of the realm to discuss."
"At your command, Your Grace. Shall we move to the solar?" Ned offered, his mind still heavy with sleep and the ghosts of the crypts.
"Damn your solar!" Robert barked. "I despise those stiff chairs, and I hate those long tables. There are too many ears in a castle. We are riding out. I have been stuck in that groaning wheelhouse or huddled near a hearth for months. I want to see this famous northern scenery of yours. Though, gods be good, it is freezing."
"This is the North, Robert," Ned said softly. It was a land that bred hard men for a harsh purpose. Surviving the Long Winter was the singular duty of the Starks.
Without another word, the King spurred his black destrier forward. Ned had no choice but to urge his own horse to follow. It was only as the cold wind fully woke him that Ned noticed the escort trailing behind them: two knights of the Kingsguard and a dozen Baratheon guardsmen.
Ned did not know these white knights well. He respected the fearless old knight, Ser Barristan Selmy, and he loathed the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister, for staining the white cloak with a King's blood. But if Ned was to enter the viper's nest of the capital, he needed to study his future colleagues.
Ser Boros Blount was an ugly, barrel-chested man with short, bowed legs, a flat nose, and jowls that hung like a hound's. He wore heavy white velvet over snow-white enameled armor, but pinned to his cloak was a gaudy golden lion brooch with ruby eyes.
Beside him rode Ser Meryn Trant, a man with drooping eyes and a rust-colored beard. His armor was even more ostentatious: fine white scale chased with gold wire, a high golden helm, and a heavy wool cloak fastened with an identical golden lion clasp.
Lions, Ned thought, a cold knot forming in his stomach. Nothing but lions.
It was too brazen to be a coincidence. Only House Lannister flaunted their wealth so carelessly. Ned realized with terrifying clarity that these men—sworn to protect the King with their lives—were entirely bought and paid for by Casterly Rock.
Does Robert truly trust the Lannisters this much? Ned wondered. Gold commanded loyalty where honor failed. With the Kingslayer already in their ranks, having two more white knights openly displaying Lannister colors was a horrific omen. Years ago, Ser Barristan had begged Robert to strip Jaime of his white cloak, but Robert had refused to anger Tywin.
The King and the new Hand rode hard, bursting through the hunter's gate and leaving the walls of Winterfell behind. They galloped into the vast, rolling expanse of the barrows. Robert did not slow his pace, leaving the heavy-armored guards trailing far behind them.
Finally, they crested a low hill. Robert brought his horse to a halt, his face flushed and a wide, genuine grin breaking through his thick beard.
"Gods, it feels good to ride in the open like a man!" Robert roared to the wind. "I tell you, Ned, creeping along at the pace of a dying ox will drive a man mad! Have you seen Cersei's wheelhouse? Creak, creak, creak... If that damned monstrosity snaps one more axle, I swear by the Seven I will burn the bloody thing and make her walk!"
Ned allowed himself a small, genuine smile. "I will gladly hold the torch for you, Robert."
Robert laughed, a booming sound that briefly chased away the shadows of the past decade. "I still dream of it, Ned. Just the two of us, riding as freeriders. No crowns, no councils. Just fighting in the day and finding some tavern wench to warm our beds at night."
"It is a sweet dream," Ned agreed quietly. "But we have our duties. To the realm, to our children, and to our ladies."
"You never were young, Ned," Robert grunted, his smile fading. "Though there was that one time... what was the girl's name?"
"Her name was Wylla," Ned said, his voice instantly turning to frost. "And I will not speak of her."
Robert held up a heavily gloved hand in surrender. "Peace, Ned. I did not ride out here to freeze my balls off talking of your bastards."
The King reached into his heavy fur cloak and withdrew a crumpled, sealed parchment. "A raven arrived from Lord Varys yesterday."
The eunuch's name left a foul taste in Ned's mouth. Varys had served the Mad King right up until the sack of the city, and then seamlessly transitioned to serving Robert.
Ned took the parchment, his heart hammering against his ribs. Is it about Lysa? Has the Spider found her letter?
But as he broke the seal and read the ciphered words, he let out a long, slow breath. It was not about the Eyrie. It was about Essos.
"The boy is consolidating," Ned summarized. "The Twin Cities are pacified. And he keeps the Targaryen girl close."
"Look closer at the numbers, Ned," Robert scowled. "Those are not sellswords looking for a quick payday. He is building legions. He drills them daily. He is building a standing army."
"It is a grave concern," Ned said carefully. Yet, with the image of the lion-clasped Kingsguard fresh in his mind, he could not help but wonder if the true enemy was sitting across the sea, or sleeping in the King's own bed.
"I say we send a knife in the dark," Robert said bluntly, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "A clean strike. End the dragons, and the boy's coalition fractures."
"Assassins?" Ned recoiled, genuine revulsion coloring his tone. "Robert, they are children. One of them is your own blood. We are not Tywin Lannister. We do not butcher babes in the night. Do you remember what his men did to Rhaegar's infants? They tore the boy from his mother's breast and dashed his head against the wall. They stabbed the little girl half a hundred times. We do not fight like that."
"My blood?!" Robert roared, his face purpling with sudden, explosive rage. "He is a traitor! He flies my banner while sheltering the dragonspawn that murdered my betrothed! I care nothing for the boy. But kinslaying is a cursed word. So, I will settle for the dragons."
"Even so," Ned argued, his honor unyielding. "It is murder. If he is a threat, we marshal the fleet. We meet him on the water or the field, as we did Balon Greyjoy. We fight with honor."
"Honor!" Robert bellowed, his horse dancing nervously under him. "What honor did the Mad King show your father when he roasted him alive in his own armor?! What honor did he show your brother when he strangled himself trying to save him?! And Rhaegar... how many times did he rape Lyanna? Once? A hundred times?"
Robert yanked the reins, his eyes wide and wild. "I will kill every Targaryen I can get my hands on, Ned! I will exterminate their foul bloodline, and then I will piss on their graves!"
Ned sat in stunned silence. When the King's fury broke, there was no reasoning with him. But Ned would not yield on this. "You cannot simply murder them, Robert. We must prepare for war."
"Prepare for war," Robert repeated, his anger suddenly collapsing into a hollow, bitter laugh. "You speak of fleets and armies. Tell me, Lord Hand... do you know how much gold sits in the royal treasury?"
"How much?" Ned asked, bracing himself.
"We are three million dragons in debt to the Lannisters alone. Perhaps six million total, I don't know, I hate counting the damned coppers!" Robert threw his hands up in defeat. "The treasury is empty, Ned. Empty! Where am I to find the gold to build three hundred warships and feed thirty thousand men? It would bankrupt the realm twice over."
Ned felt as though the freezing wind had suddenly driven straight through his chest. Six million gold dragons. It was a number so vast it defied comprehension. Aerys Targaryen had left vaults overflowing with gold. It was all gone. The Iron Throne was built on a mountain of debt, propped up entirely by Tywin Lannister's gold.
"A knife is cheap, Ned," Robert said quietly, looking out over the frozen barrows. "A war will break us."