Father, brother, sister… Eddard Stark had buried so many of his own. They had been gone for years, yet the ache returned each time he remembered them.
Robert—his friend, his brother in all but blood—was about to leave him as well. Ned shut his eyes against the pain.
Winter is coming. He opened them again. This was no time for grief. His gaze hardened.
A handmaid carefully wiped Robert's face. Ned looked long upon his sleeping friend, as if to carve those features into his heart. When this was done, he would quit King's Landing and all its bitter memories, and mourn in the godswood of Winterfell.
He turned. "How long does he have?" he asked Pycelle.
The Grand Maester's face was grave. "My lord Hand, I shall do all I can, but the king's wounds are mortal. I can only ease his pain. The rest… we must leave to the gods. May they be merciful."
Ned had known the answer, yet the words still cut.
"See to the king," he said, and strode for the door. At the threshold he could not help but look back once more. Gods be good.
…
Outside the royal bedchamber the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stood faithful watch.
"Ser Barristan," Ned said, "the king has taken milk of the poppy. No one is to disturb his rest without my leave."
"As you command, Lord Hand." The old knight seemed older still. "I have failed my sacred charge."
Ned remembered other hunts—Robert with the boar-spear, unflinching as the beast charged, cursing it loudly until the last instant and then driving the point home.
He touched Barristan's arm. "His Grace told me how it was. No knight can halt a drunken Robert."
"I should have," Barristan whispered. "When we flushed the boar, the king was so drunk he could scarcely stand, yet he ordered us aside, and like a fool I obeyed."
Renly, pale and bloodstained, said hoarsely, "No man disobeys my brother's command."
Ned clapped Renly on the shoulder—the young lord was Robert writ small. It was true: at that moment, none could have stayed him, not even Ned.
Varys glided forward from behind Ned and inclined his head. "Ser Barristan, a small curiosity—who brought the king his wine?"
Barristan frowned. "His Grace drank from the skin he carried on his belt."
Varys folded his hands, smiling oddly. "One skin to fell Robert Baratheon? His capacity is known in all the Seven Kingdoms."
Brows knit all around.
"Not one skin," Barristan said. "Whenever he called for more, his squire fetched another. I did not count. There were… many."
Varys nodded mildly. "A diligent boy indeed. His Grace never lacked for wine."
"And the squire that day?"
Renly answered before the old knight. "Lancel Lannister."
Varys sighed. "Ah. The new squire. Son of Ser Kevan, nephew to Lord Tywin, cousin to the queen. A stout lad. Let us hope he does not blame himself—youth is a tender season. I know that… very well."
No one cared to answer that. One by one they drifted away.
…
They had walked in silence nearly to the Tower of the Hand when Renly spoke.
"Ned."
Ned halted. Renly still wore the gore-streaked clothes.
"You should rest," Ned said.
"I've no heart for it." He drew a breath. "I would speak with you—alone."
Ned trusted Renly. He waved his guards back.
Renly stepped close and pitched his voice low. "The sealed letter—does it name you Regent, Protector of the Realm?"
He hurried on, "Give me an hour. I have thirty household guards, and friends among the knights and young lords. I can put a hundred men in your hands."
Ned studied him. "Why would I need a hundred men?"
"To strike first," Renly urged. "Now, tonight, while the city sleeps."
Ned's face cooled. "Strike whom?"
Renly did not see it. His eyes shone with a fierce excitement Ned did not recognize.
"We take Joffrey from his mother—hostage for good order. Regent or no, the man who holds the king holds the realm. We seize Myrcella and Tommen as well. With Cersei's children in hand, she will not dare move. Then the council will confirm you Regent and guardian to Joffrey—"
"No," Ned cut in, cold. "Robert still breathes. The gods may yet spare him. If he dies, I will summon the council at once, read his will, and we will settle the succession in daylight."
He looked at this strange Renly. "I will not spill blood at a dying man's bedside, nor drag frightened children from their beds."
Renly flushed. "This is no time for scruples. Cersei will not sit idle. If you wait for Robert to die, it may be too late. We'll be in deadly peril."
"Then pray he does not die," Ned said.
"We cannot blind ourselves! You know his state. We must not sit and wait for death."
"Sometimes," Ned said, "the gods are merciful."
Renly's jaw clenched. "The Lannisters will not be." He flung his cloak and strode away.
…
In the game of thrones, you win or you die.
Back in his solar, Ned heard Cersei's words again and wondered if refusing Renly had been folly.
He wanted no part in such plots, least of all using children as pawns. And if Cersei chose defiance, as Renly believed she would, a hundred men would never suffice.
He had brought a little over fifty northmen to King's Landing; twenty were already in the Reach hunting raiders. Barely thirty remained—enough in peace to guard himself and his daughters, woefully short for war.
There were at least three hundred Lannister redcloaks in the Red Keep. Ned thought of the two little wolves sleeping in the Tower of the Hand.
Whatever Cersei chose, he would send his children home. He would not leave them in danger.
…
A frantic knock. Jory burst in without waiting leave, so shaken it forgot his usual composure.
"My lord—the king is dead!"
Ned swayed; Jory caught his arm.
Damn it all. He had not yet had time to pray for the brother of his heart, and Robert was gone.
They had all known, of course. Renly had been right.
After a moment's silence, Ned said, steadying himself, "Jory."
The wolf could not yet grieve. There was work still, work his friend had laid upon him.
"Hire a ship, the fastest you can," he ordered. "At once."
"Send for the High Septon. The king needs him. Let Lord Renly attend the rest."
"In my name, close every gate of the Red Keep. No one enters or leaves without my word."
Jory flew out as he had come.
Ned sat, drew a fresh parchment, dipped his quill, and began.
To Stannis of House Baratheon, King and Lord of Dragonstone:
By the time this reaches you, your brother Robert the First will have passed. He was wounded by a boar while hunting…
He set down the manner of Robert's hurt, then paused.
Stannis was the lawful heir to the Iron Throne. He must come to King's Landing at once and take the reins of the realm.
The quill moved again.
When he finished, he signed: Protector of the Realm, Hand of the King, Lord of Winterfell, Eddard Stark.
Relief, brief and thin, touched him. His regency would be short. The new king would name a new Hand, and Ned would ride for home—to Bran's laughter, to hawking with Robb, to Rickon's games, to the hard, dreamless sleep in Catelyn's arms.
Until Stannis came, he must hold the city safe.
And that meant he could not ignore Cersei. He would not leave Stannis a tangle of blood and vengeance. Stannis would come with Dragonstone's strength; if Cersei and her children still lingered… Ned knew the man. They would not be spared. He could not give her more time. At least the children were innocent.
He counted. Thirty men. Ten must go to see his daughters safely away—leaving him twenty.
Add Renly's hundred and they could scrape together one hundred twenty. Against three hundred Lannister redcloaks.
He thought of Gawen Crabb and his two hundred bluecloaks. Then set the thought aside. Gawen was still a boy, and sworn to Cersei. Ned would not force a child to such a choice. Better to draw him out of the storm—lest Stannis punish him later for the queen's sake.
Let the boy and his men be spared.
Another knock.
"My lord, Lord Janos Slynt begs audience," called Cayn through the door.
…
Outside the Tower of the Hand, Gawen watched Janos Slynt depart and then mounted the stairs himself.
…
Ned was surprised to see the youth in armor, helm beneath his arm.
"What has happened?"
Gawen set the helm upon the table. "Lord Stark, there is a strange temper in the streets. You have too few northmen. You need my guards."
The concern in the boy's face warmed Ned.
"Gawen—things have turned ill in the Red Keep. At first light I would have you quit the city for Riverrun. My wife's father is unwell. I think of you as my own son—go in my stead and pay him our respects."
Gawen sighed softly. After a silence, he said, "Lord Stark, there are no secrets in the Red Keep. That much is known to all."
"Seven hells," Ned muttered.
.
.
.
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