In the Hand's solar, Eddard Stark sat with furrowed brow.
Sometimes, children's innocent eyes saw truths that grown men overlooked. One simple line from Sansa had cut through his doubts. The truth churned within him, chilling his heart like death.
The seed is strong. Now he understood Jon Arryn's final words. Every bastard of Robert he had found bore black hair as dark as night—including the little girl in the Vale.
Ned's grey eyes moved to the open volume on his desk: The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
Maester Malleon had recorded the last marriage of stag and lion, more than ninety years past—Tya Lannister wed Gerold Baratheon. Their only child, a son who died in infancy before being named, had been described as large, lusty, and dark-haired.
Thirty years before that, another Lannister male had taken a Baratheon bride. She bore him three daughters and a son—all black-haired.
Gold yields to coal, and vanishes.
…
Ned's stern face twisted with anguish.
He longed to conceal it, to let Robert remain a king free of such torment. Yet his honor forbade silence.
Would Robert, when told, become another Mad King?
The memory of that day, years ago, struck him: the Lannister red cloaks, a girl in her nightdress with bare feet, and an infant boy still slick with blood and brains.
Ned clenched his fists. He would not see it happen again.
Robert could be merciful, when shown courage and honor. After the war, Ser Barristan Selmy had not been the only man he pardoned. Pycelle, Varys, even Balon Greyjoy—all men once his foes, yet Robert had allowed them to keep their honor once they bent the knee.
But this was different. Poison in secret, a dagger in the dark—such treachery Robert could never forgive. He had never forgiven Rhaegar. And slaughter, no matter how thorough, might not quench his rage.
The realm could not endure another mad king, nor another storm of blood and vengeance.
Still, Ned could not keep silent. He was Hand of the King. He owed truth to Robert, and to the realm. The royal bloodline must not be left to fester in lies.
A knock broke his thoughts.
"My lord, Lord Crabb has come."
"Send him in."
The door opened. Gawen Crabb entered, bowed. "Good evening, Lord Stark."
Ned's heart eased somewhat. At least this boy was spared the quarrels of his elders. Gawen had grown strong—skilled with a sword, steady in service. Ned trusted him.
The Hand almost smiled. The lad had won the tourney, yet Ned had been too consumed with duty to praise him. Catelyn would have seen to it at once; he never could.
He thought of the sword Jon Arryn had once gifted him, a blade with its own tale of honor. Perhaps he would pass it to Gawen—a gift for the champion. The passing of honor.
…
The quarrels of lords should not burden the children. Whatever Robert's wrath, Ned swore he would find a way to protect those three children.
Looking at Gawen, he smiled. Perhaps Robert's bastards too might be spared the sins of their elders.
"What news?"
Gawen's eyes flicked briefly to the book on the desk. "Lord Stark, Lord Mace has resolved to leave King's Landing tomorrow, returning to Highgarden to hold his seat."
Ned frowned. "Will he abandon his place on the Small Council? Or is he marching to war?"
Gawen shook his head. "The golden rose does not so lightly give up its chair. Lord Mace has put forth a name—Garth Tyrell, his uncle—to serve as Master of Coin."
"Garth Tyrell…" Ned muttered.
"Lord Stark, since his father's day he has been Highgarden's steward. His ability is beyond doubt."
Ned studied the boy's face. "And you—what say you of him?"
"My lord, he is capable, and the realm's coffers need Highgarden's gold. The Tyrells want a seat, the crown needs their coin. It is… a reasonable choice."
"Seven hells," Ned growled, thinking of the realm's debts.
Gawen lifted a shoulder. "The king dreams; the Hand must build them."
Ned snorted, weary. "The king feasts; the Hand shits."
Gawen allowed a small laugh before speaking seriously. "With Littlefinger in the dungeons, the treasury needs Tyrell support. It is the only wise course."
Ned sighed. "So be it. Tomorrow, I'll see it done."
Gawen poured wine for him.
"As for war—you need not fear it, my lord. Lord Mace is not quick to anger. In another's hands, the south would already be aflame."
Ned sipped. "True. He has done well."
Gawen poured for himself. "But whether war comes rests with Lord Tywin. It depends how the lion of Casterly Rock chooses."
…
As Gawen turned to leave, Ned's eyes lingered on the book. "Gawen, soon I'll send you on a task outside the city."
If Robert's rage broke loose, the boy could be made a scapegoat. Ned would see him safe until the storm passed.
Gawen paused, eyes flickering. "Lord Stark, I await your command."
He bowed, glanced once more at the Hand's desk, and departed.
…
…
The Godswood of the Red Keep.
Ned gave a sealed letter to Jory Cassel. "Take this to Queen Cersei in Maegor's Holdfast."
Beyond the walls, the city clamored, but here was peace: the rustle of leaves, the whisper of birds, the stillness of the heart tree, an oak without a face yet heavy with presence.
How long he sat he did not know, until the sun sank and the clouds burned crimson.
At last, she came. Alone. Golden hair caught the breeze, green eyes alight like summer leaves, pale skin touched with rose.
Ned inclined his head slightly.
Cersei Lannister's voice held its usual pride. "Why here, Stark?"
She had guessed the note must concern marriage. She had kept him waiting, arriving only at sunset.
Ned looked at her calmly. "That the gods might witness."
"Let us hope the gods are listening."
She lowered herself beside him, every movement graceful.
"The seed is strong," Ned said. "Jon Arryn's last words."
"I paid no heed."
Her cold green eyes held his. "I've no patience for riddles, Stark. Is this why you called me?"
Ned's gaze hardened. "The Kingslayer—he is not only your brother. He is your lover."
She showed no flinch.
"Yes," she said simply. "Brother and lover. The Targaryens wed brother to sister for three hundred years to keep the blood pure. Jaime and I—we were born together, two halves of one whole. Only when we are joined do I feel complete."
She smiled faintly. "When we couple, I am whole."
The plainness of her admission robbed Ned of the fury he had expected to feel.
"Then the three children—they are Jaime's."
"Thank the gods you finally see."
…
For a time he was silent. Then softly: "Cersei—you have been wed for over ten years. Why no child of your own with Robert?"
Her eyes gleamed with disdain. "Once, he got me with child. Jaime found a maester to rid me of it. Robert never knew. Since then—I will not let him touch me. Years now since he has tried. When he does stumble drunk to my bed, I find ways to keep him pleased. He never remembers come morning."
Her words deepened Ned's frown. Hatred. She hated Robert with every fiber. Why? What had he done?
He asked, voice calm still: "Why such hate? What did he do?"
Her eyes flared green fire. "Why? On our wedding night, he took me in his cups, reeking of wine. And in my ear, he whispered a name. Not mine. Your sister's. Lyanna."
A blue rose. Ned's face tightened with sorrow. "I know not whether to pity you, or him."
Her reply was sharp. "Wolves may pity. Lions do not. Pity is an insult."
His grey eyes locked on hers. "You know what I must do."
He had thought to spare the children. But hearing her, he resolved otherwise. Let her take them, and leave this false marriage behind.
"And what must you do?"
Her hand slid onto his leg. "A true man does what he wishes—not what he must."
Her fingers trailed across his thigh, up to his face and hair.
"Lord Hand, the realm needs a strong Hand until Joffrey comes of age. None wish war. Least of all I."
Her touch caressed his cheek, her voice a purr.
"If friends can turn to foes, why not foes to friends? Lady Stark is far away… You need me. I can give you more than duty. Be kind to me, Ned, and you will not regret it."
Her arm circled his neck, her body warm with promise.
"Ned," she whispered, "be good to me."
.
.
.
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