"Six million, Your Grace? Do I hear you right?" Ned asked, his voice tight.
The North was a vast, unforgiving land, but it bred an innate understanding of value. To a highborn Lord of Winterfell, six million golden dragons was a number that defied comprehension. A master-forged suit of heavy plate, a helm, and a destrier might cost a knight a hundred dragons. A ransom of three hundred dragons was considered a princely sum for a captured lord. What staggering mountain of wheat, corn, and steel could six million buy?
"How could Jon Arryn allow the Crown to bleed so heavily?" Ned murmured, the thought slipping out before he could stop himself. The late Hand had been a meticulous, careful man.
"Jon tried," Robert scoffed, waving a thick leather glove in the air. "Jon was always preaching about the harvest and the coppers. He was worse than a septon. But a King must be a King, Ned."
Ned had always known Robert was a man of vast appetites—women, wine, hunting, and the melee—but he had never imagined the rot had spread so deep.
"Do not look at me with that sour face, Ned," the King grumbled. "You know I have no head for ledgers and sums. I leave the counting to Littlefinger. Baelish is the one who conjures the gold; you must ask him why the numbers are so foul."
Ned was utterly baffled. "Your Grace, with respect... Aerys Targaryen left vaults overflowing with gold. How could you squander a dragon's hoard in fifteen years?"
"Tourneys! Feasts! To keep the realm smiling and the lords content," Robert said shamelessly. "Even now, when we reach King's Landing, I will pay out tens of thousands of dragons in prizes for the Hand's tourney. The King cannot appear a beggar."
Ned felt a headache forming behind his eyes. "And who is paying for these tourneys, Robert? Who holds this debt?"
"The lion's share belongs to my good father-in-law, Lord Tywin," Robert answered casually. "The rest is scattered. Littlefinger is quite clever at finding new teats to suckle. We owe the Tyrells, the Iron Bank of Braavos, a few Tyroshi trading cartels, and the Faith of the Seven."
"It is madness," Ned breathed, the cold wind biting through his cloak. The journey South was already a mistake. The Crown was paralyzed by debt, and the chief creditor was Tywin Lannister. Gold bought swords, and gold bought silence. The Lannisters had effectively purchased the Iron Throne without drawing a blade.
The secret letters from Stannis and Lysa Arryn hung over Ned like a headsman's axe. Poor, blind Robert. He was sleeping in a bed of lions, entirely unaware of their teeth.
And the Kingsguard offered no sanctuary. The Kingslayer wore the white cloak, and the other knights openly wore the golden lion on their breasts.
"Your Grace, for the sake of the realm, this spending must end," Ned urged. He could not remain silent; he loved Robert too much to watch him drown.
As for Stannis's accusations—the murdered Hand and the unnatural incest of the Queen—Ned knew he must move with absolute caution. He would confront the Lannisters, but he needed proof before he struck.
"Enough, enough," Robert grunted impatiently, pulling his fur cloak tighter. "I did not drag you out into the freezing wind to listen to a lecture on coppers. If you have no stomach for assassins, then we must speak of fleets and war."
The King's face darkened. "We should have struck years ago. But Jon was like you—too honorable, too cautious. He begged me to leave the Targaryen orphans alone. So, I foolishly agreed. A fat Pentoshi cheesemonger hid them behind his walls, guarded by eunuchs, and now they have allied with my bastard to build an empire."
"Lord Arryn gave you wise counsel, Robert. The children were no threat then."
"Well, they are a threat now!" Robert snapped. "The whisperers say the Triarchy can field an army of a hundred thousand and launch three hundred warships. If Jon could hear those numbers, he would spin in his grave."
"We have fleets of our own, and seasoned armies," Ned reasoned calmly. "Furthermore, the Magisters of Volantis and Lys will not allow this Twin City Alliance to expand unchecked. The Free Cities will bleed each other."
"We cannot rely on Essosi slavers to fight our wars, Ned," Robert insisted. "Gold, ships, intelligence, men—we must prepare. And I am trusting you to coordinate it."
"The North is yours to command, Your Grace," Ned replied instantly. Yet, his mind lingered on Casterly Rock. If Ned rode East to fight Gendry, he would be leaving the Red Keep entirely in the hands of the Lannisters.
"It is not so simple, Ned. The Essosi fleets are formidable; they already hold the Stepstones," Robert said, his brow furrowing with anxiety. "And do not underestimate the danger of my bastard marrying the dragonspawn. Do not forget how many lords fought beneath the dragon banner at the Trident. They call me Usurper in their cups. If a Targaryen princess and a Baratheon warlord land on these shores, half the realm might rise for them."
"If they land, we will drive them back into the sea," Ned said firmly. "But to coordinate the defense of the Vale and the Narrow Sea, you must name a new Warden of the East."
Robert sighed heavily. "The Arryn boy is a sickly infant. He is six years old and still sucking at his mother's teat. I know he is your nephew by marriage, Ned. But I hear the war horns blowing. Sellswords, slavers, Targaryen loyalists. I am not mad enough to give command of a quarter of the realm's armies to a shivering child."
Ned understood the logic, but the insult to House Arryn would be catastrophic. The title of Warden of the East had belonged to the Eyrie for centuries.
"If young Robert Arryn cannot serve, then bestow the title upon one of your own brothers," Ned offered a solution. "Stannis proved his brilliance during the siege of Storm's End, and he smashed the Iron Fleet. He is the logical choice."
Robert's face soured at the mention of his middle brother. "Stannis has his own duties. When the war begins, he will command the royal fleet from Dragonstone."
"A man can hold two titles, Robert," Ned pressed cautiously. He knew the brothers despised each other, but Stannis was an iron commander.
"The seat is already filled, Ned," Robert said flatly, avoiding his gaze.
Ned felt the blood freeze in his veins. "Jaime Lannister." He spat the name like poison.
"Yes," Robert said after a long, heavy silence.
"The Kingslayer," Ned said, the horror of Lysa's warning amplifying tenfold. "Robert, no. For his skill at arms, yes, he is capable. But Lord Tywin is the Warden of the West. Jaime is his heir. If you give him the East, you place half the armies of the Seven Kingdoms under the command of a single House."
And the House that holds your debt, Ned thought frantically.
"You worry too much like an old woman, Ned," Robert groaned, waving a hand. "Tywin is healthy as an ox. Jaime will not inherit Casterly Rock for years. The deed is done; let us speak of it no more."
"Robert—"
"I said the deed is done!" Robert barked. "You will be Hand. Jaime will hold the East. Stannis will command the ships. Littlefinger and Renly have ties to the Tyrells, so the Reach will supply our grain. The board is set."
"But the coin, Robert," Ned pushed, his temper finally fraying. "You just told me the treasury is empty. Wars are fought with gold."
"Let Tywin Lannister pay for it!" Robert laughed, a sudden, booming sound. "He is my father-in-law. This war will secure the throne for his grandson. He will open his vaults when the time comes."
"Your Grace, forgive my bluntness," Ned said, his voice hard as iron. "But you place too much trust in the lion."
"He is my wife's brother, Ned. He is a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. His honor and his life are bound to mine."
Ned stared at the King. The memory of the Sack of King's Landing burned behind his eyes. A sworn brother of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect the King with his life, who had opened the King's throat with a gilded sword.
"He sat on the Iron Throne, Robert," Ned said, his voice dropping to a harsh, haunted whisper. "I will never forget it. The Mad King was dead on the floor, his blood pooling on the marble. And there was Ser Jaime Lannister. Golden armor, a white cloak, a golden sword resting across his knees. He sat on the Throne of Aegon the Conqueror, looking down at us all with a smile on his face."
"I know the story, Ned!" Robert complained, rolling his eyes.
"You do not understand the danger—"
"He was seventeen years old!" Robert suddenly bellowed with laughter. "A boy! Am I to distrust him forever because he rested his arse on a chair for five minutes? He has done everything I have ever asked of him. Without the Lannisters, we would not hold this throne."
Robert nudged his horse closer to Ned, clapping a heavy hand on the Northman's shoulder.
"Peace, Ned. Once Joffrey marries your Sansa, we will truly be one family. The wolves, the stags, and the lions. Tywin will forget your sour face, and we will crush the boy across the water."
"As you command," Ned said, his voice completely hollow.
"Don't look so grim! Once the war is won, you can run the realm while I hunt and drink. Stannis on the sea, Jaime in the East, you in the capital. Everything will be fine once the children are wed."
Robert smiled broadly, completely oblivious to the fact that he was building a kingdom on quicksand.