The Red Keep lay dark and silent.
Outside the king's chamber, Lord Eddard Stark saw Ser Barristan Selmy and two other Kingsguard standing watch. Their grim faces sent a chill crawling up his spine.
The royal steward pulled open the door and called out:
"His Grace's Hand, Lord Eddard Stark."
"Bring him in."
Robert's voice was thick and broken. Ned's heart lurched—something was terribly wrong. He strode inside.
Twin hearths roared at either end of the chamber, filling the room with a heavy red glow. The air was stifling, thick with smoke, blood, and the reek of death.
Robert Baratheon lay upon a bed hung with curtains, Grand Maester Pycelle at his side, while Lord Renly Baratheon paced anxiously before the shuttered windows.
Cersei Lannister sat at the bedside, her hair disheveled as if roused from sleep, though her eyes were sharp and wakeful.
Robert's boots jutted from beneath the blanket, caked with mud and straw. Ned's eyes fell upon a green hunting surcoat cast upon the carpet, cut open and crusted brown with blood.
The stench of death was everywhere.
Robert turned his pallid face toward him, white as milk. His voice was a whisper.
"Ned…"
The king's wound was mortal.
Ned stepped closer, his throat tight. He wanted to ask who, but his voice caught like iron jaws around his words.
Renly spoke instead, his own garments stained with gore.
"A boar. A great wild boar."
Robert's breath rattled.
"A demon of the woods. I was drunk, Ned… my arrows all missed. The gods damn me to hell."
Ned rounded on Renly, furious.
"What were you all doing? Where were Ser Barristan and the Kingsguard?"
Renly grimaced.
"Ned, my brother commanded us to stand aside. He swore he would face the beast alone."
Ned drew back the blanket.
The boar's tusks had ripped his chest and belly to ribbons. Pycelle's bandages were sodden with blood, and the smell was overwhelming.
Ned let the blanket fall, his heart heavy. If Robert must die, it should have been on a battlefield, not butchered in the hunt.
Robert growled, teeth red with blood, yet grinning through the pain.
"It stinks, doesn't it? The stink of death—I can smell it too. But I gave that bastard its due. Ask them! Ask them! I shoved steel through its eye!"
Renly murmured, "We brought the carcass back, as he commanded. The wound proves it."
Robert gasped, "Eat it… for supper…"
Then, fixing his eyes on Ned, he rasped, "Leave us. All of you. I would speak with my Hand alone."
Cersei's voice was soft, almost sorrowful.
"My love…"
But the stag still roared within him.
"I said OUT. Which word do you not understand, woman?"
Her face hardened. Rising, she cast Ned a long, laden look before sweeping out. One by one, the rest followed.
Alone, grief blurred Ned's sight.
"Gods curse you, Robert!" he muttered.
The king chuckled through the blood.
"Damn you too, Ned. I killed the boar. I did not lose!"
…
…
Lord Gawen Crabb strode swiftly up the walls of the Red Keep, finding Queen Cersei standing alone beneath the moonlight. She seemed a statue carved in pale stone, eyes fixed toward the king's chambers.
"Your Grace," he said with a hand to his breast.
After a long silence, she spoke, her voice icy.
"Lord Crabb… Robert is dying."
Not "the drunken usurper," Ned thought—yet Gawen only inclined his head.
"I passed Lord Renly and the others. I heard whispers."
Cersei turned her green eyes upon him.
"Tell me, Lord Crabb… will my son Joffrey sit the Iron Throne?"
"Of course," he answered lightly. But then he added, "Yet you seem troubled, Your Grace?"
She gave a bitter smile.
"Pycelle tells me the king will not last the night. Robert knows it too, and still he cast out his queen and kept only the wolf beside him."
"Fear not, my queen," Gawen said steadily. "Prince Joffrey is the rightful heir, without question. And if any should oppose him… my soldiers wait beyond the gates."
Cersei's hand caressed his cheek, uncharacteristically tender.
"I trust your loyalty, Lord Crabb."
She leaned against him, her words soft in his ear.
"You may embrace your queen. It is your reward."
His arms stiffened, then slowly closed about her shoulders and waist.
"My thanks, Your Grace," he whispered hoarsely.
Cersei's words were silk and steel.
"Janos Slynt has already come over to your queen."
Gawen's eyes flickered.
"A good omen. Six thousand gold cloaks in Slynt's command will secure Prince Joffrey's succession."
But the lioness was not so trusting.
"I cannot rely on him as you would. He is no true lord. My children's lives will not rest upon Janos Slynt alone. I need your men inside the city as well."
He bowed his head.
"As you command, Your Grace. I will win the gate captains, and my men shall enter the city unseen, awaiting your word."
Cersei's lips curved with satisfaction.
In the game of thrones, there was no middle ground.
…
Back in the king's chamber—
Robert's voice was ragged, each word wrung from his pain.
"Ned… I should kill you too, for never letting me hunt in peace. Damn it, the boy told me you'd have me chase raiders in the west, and I was glad for it… thought there'd be a fight… and instead… the boar… the gods' punishment…"
He coughed blood.
"Varys… Pycelle… even my brothers… Ned, trust none of them. Only you. My son… I never liked him. But I love him. Care for Joffrey… do not let that harpy whisper in his ear. I trust only you."
Ned's chest ached. Joffrey is not your son, he wanted to say. But he could not. He would not heap more torment upon the dying man.
Robert groaned, "Stop looking so bloody mournful. It doesn't suit you. Bring me pen and paper."
Ned pulled a small table to the bedside, spread parchment, and took up a quill.
"I am ready, Robert."
The king's breath rasped.
"I, Robert of House Baratheon, First of my Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men… Lord of the Seven Kingdoms… Protector of the Realm… here make my last will. I name Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, to be Regent and Protector of the Realm, to rule in my stead until my… son Joffrey… comes of age."
Ned's quill paused. He wrote not "Joffrey," but "my rightful heir." The lie stained his soul, but he whispered to himself—it was a lie for love's sake. May the gods forgive him.
"It is done," he said softly.
Robert scrawled his name, pressing the parchment into Ned's hand.
"When I am gone… give this to the council."
"Don't go, Robert. The realm needs you still," Ned whispered.
The king gripped his hand with failing strength.
"You… never could lie, Ned. I know what I am. A drunken fool of a king. As mad as the one before me. Gods forgive me."
"You are better than him. Far better," Ned said fiercely.
Robert forced a broken smile.
"Then let this be my one good deed. The last thing I ever did right. The kingdom is yours now. You will hate ruling as much as I did—but you'll do it well."
Blood bubbled at his lips.
"Remember… roast the boar for my funeral feast. Crisp the skin, sweet and crackling. Make them eat the bastard whole. Swear it, Ned."
Ned heard Lyanna's voice echo in his heart—Promise me, Ned.
"I swear it, Robert."
"Make Joffrey a better man than me… gods have mercy…"
"I will, my friend."
At last Robert eased, closing his eyes.
"Killed by a boar. Seven hells. If not for the pain, I might laugh."
Ned managed no smile. "Shall I summon the others?"
Robert nodded faintly.
"I've had enough of your long face. Send for Pycelle—give me milk of the poppy. Seven save me, it's cold in here."
…
They returned to the chamber, finding Cersei already gone. Ned felt a sliver of relief—if she had any sense, she would take the children and flee before dawn.
Robert sealed the will with the royal signet in the presence of Renly and Pycelle. Then he drained the cup of milk of the poppy.
White dripped into his black beard. "Will I dream?" he asked.
"Yes," Ned said, his heart breaking. "A sweet dream."
Robert smiled.
"Good… Ned… give Lyanna my love. Watch over my children."
The words cut Ned deeper than any blade. He thought of Robert's bastards—Barra in her mother's arms, Mya Stone in the Vale, Gendry at his forge.
"I will care for your children as if they were my own," Ned promised softly.
Robert nodded, closed his eyes, and sank back into the pillows as the poppy's milk washed away the pain.
The king slept.
.
.
.
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