He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in
white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of
blood.
In the dream his friends rode with him, as they had in life.
Proud Martyn Cassel, Jory’s father; faithful Theo Wull; Ethan
Glover, who had been Brandon’s squire; Ser Mark Ryswell, soft
of speech and gentle of heart; the crannogman, Howland Reed; Lord
Dustin on his great red stallion. Ned had known their faces as well
as he knew his own once, but the years leech at a man’s
memories, even those he has vowed never to forget. In the dream
they were only shadows, grey wraiths on horses made of mist.
They were seven, facing three. In the dream as it had been in
life. Yet these were no ordinary three. They waited before the
round tower, the red mountains of Dorne at their backs, their white
cloaks blowing in the wind. And these were no shadows; their faces
burned clear, even now. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning,
had a sad smile on his lips. The hilt of the greatsword Dawn poked
up over his right shoulder. Ser Oswell Whent was on one knee,
sharpening his blade with a whetstone. Across his white-enameled
helm, the black bat of his House spread its wings. Between them
stood fierce old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord
Commander of the Kingsguard.
“I looked for you on the Trident,” Ned said to
them.
“We were not there,” Ser Gerold answered.
“Woe to the Usurper if we had been,” said Ser
Oswell.
“When King’s Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king
with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were.”
“Far away,” Ser Gerold said, “or Aerys would
yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven
hells.”
“I came down on Storm’s End to lift the
siege,” Ned told them, “and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne
dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge
us fealty. I was certain you would be among them.”
“Our knees do not bend easily,” said Ser Arthur
Dayne.
“Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen
and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with
him.”
“Ser Willem is a good man and true,” said Ser
Oswell.
“But not of the Kingsguard,” Ser Gerold pointed out.
“The Kingsguard does not flee.”
“Then or now,” said Ser Arthur. He donned his
helm.
“We swore a vow,” explained old Ser Gerold.
Ned’s wraiths moved up beside him, with shadow swords in
hand. They were seven against three.
“And now it begins,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, the
Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both
hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.
“No,” Ned said with sadness in his voice. “Now
it ends.” As they came together in a rush of steel and
shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. “Eddard!” she
called. A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as
blue as the eyes of death.
“Lord Eddard,” Lyanna called again.
“I promise,” he whispered. “Lya, I promise . . . ”
“Lord Eddard,” a man echoed from the dark.
Groaning, Eddard Stark opened his eyes. Moonlight streamed
through the tall windows of the Tower of the Hand.
“Lord Eddard?” A shadow stood over the bed.
“How . . . how long?” The sheets were tangled, his
leg splinted and plastered. A dull throb of pain shot up his
side.
“Six days and seven nights.” The voice was Vayon
Poole’s. The steward held a cup to Ned’s lips.
“Drink, my lord.”
“What . . . ?”
“Only water. Maester Pycelle said you would be
thirsty.”
Ned drank. His lips were parched and cracked. The water tasted
sweet as honey.
“The king left orders,” Vayon Poole told him when
the cup was empty. “He would speak with you, my
lord.”
“On the morrow,” Ned said. “When I am
stronger.” He could not face Robert now. The dream had left
him weak as a kitten.
“My lord,” Poole said, “he commanded us to
send you to him the moment you opened your eyes.” The steward
busied himself lighting a bedside candle.
Ned cursed softly. Robert was never known for his patience.
“Tell him I’m too weak to come to him. If he wishes to
speak with me, I should be pleased to receive him here. I hope you
wake him from a sound sleep. And summon . . . ” He was about
to say Jory when he remembered. “Summon the captain of my
guard.”
Alyn stepped into the bedchamber a few moments after the steward
had taken his leave. “My lord.”
“Poole tells me it has been six days,” Ned said.
“I must know how things stand.”
“The Kingslayer is fled the city,” Alyn told him.
“The talk is he’s ridden back to Casterly Rock to join
his father. The story of how Lady Catelyn took the Imp is on every
lip. I have put on extra guards, if it please you.”
“It does,” Ned assured him. “My
daughters?”
“They have been with you every day, my lord. Sansa prays
quietly, but Arya . . . ” He hesitated. “She has not
said a word since they brought you back. She is a fierce little
thing, my lord. I have never seen such anger in a girl.”
“Whatever happens,” Ned said, “I want my
daughters kept safe. I fear this is only the beginning.”
“No harm will come to them, Lord Eddard,” Alyn said.
“I stake my life on that.”
“Jory and the others . . . ”
“I gave them over to the silent sisters, to be sent north to
Winterfell. Jory would want to lie beside his
grandfather.”
It would have to be his grandfather, for Jory’s father was
buried far to the south. Martyn Cassel had perished with the rest.
Ned had pulled the tower down afterward, and used its bloody stones
to build eight cairns upon the ridge. It was said that Rhaegar had
named that place the tower of joy, but for Ned it was a bitter
memory. They had been seven against three, yet only two had lived
to ride away; Eddard Stark himself and the little crannogman,
Howland Reed. He did not think it omened well that he should dream
that dream again after so many years.
“You’ve done well, Alyn,” Ned was saying when
Vayon Poole returned. The steward bowed low. “His Grace is
without, my lord, and the queen with him.”
Ned pushed himself up higher, wincing as his leg trembled with
pain. He had not expected Cersei to come. It did not bode well that
she had. “Send them in, and leave us. What we have to say
should not go beyond these walls.” Poole withdrew
quietly.
Robert had taken time to dress. He wore a black velvet doublet
with the crowned stag of Baratheon worked upon the breast in golden
thread, and a golden mantle with a cloak of black and gold squares.
A flagon of wine was in his hand, his face already flushed from
drink. Cersei Lannister entered behind him, a jeweled tiara in her
hair.
“Your Grace,” Ned said. “Your pardons. I
cannot rise.”
“No matter,” the king said gruffly. “Some
wine? From the Arbor. A good vintage.”
“A small cup,” Ned said. “My head is still
heavy from the milk of the poppy.”
“A man in your place should count himself fortunate that
his head is still on his shoulders,” the queen declared.
“Quiet, woman,” Robert snapped. He brought Ned a cup
of wine. “Does the leg still pain you?”
“Some,” Ned said. His head was swimming, but it
would not do to admit to weakness in front of the queen.
“Pycelle swears it will heal clean.” Robert frowned.
“I take it you know what Catelyn has done?”
“I do.” Ned took a small swallow of wine. “My
lady wife is blameless, Your Grace. All she did she did at my
command.”
“I am not pleased, Ned,” Robert grumbled.
“By what right do you dare lay hands on my blood?”
Cersei demanded. “Who do you think you are?”
“The Hand of the King,” Ned told her with icy
courtesy. “Charged by your own lord husband to keep the
king’s peace and enforce the king’s justice.”
“You were the Hand,” Cersei began, “but
now—”
“Silence!” the king roared. “You asked him a
question and he answered it.” Cersei subsided, cold with
anger, and Robert turned back to Ned. “Keep the king’s
peace, you say. Is this how you keep my peace, Ned? Seven men are
dead . . . ”
“Eight,” the queen corrected. “Tregar died
this morning, of the blow Lord Stark gave him.”
“Abductions on the kingsroad and drunken slaughter in my
streets,” the king said. “I will not have it,
Ned.”
“Catelyn had good reason for taking the Imp—”
“I said, I will not have it! To hell with her reasons. You
will command her to release the dwarf at once, and you will make
your peace with Jaime.”
“Three of my men were butchered before my eyes, because
Jaime Lannister wished to chasten me. Am I to forget
that?”
“My brother was not the cause of this quarrel,”
Cersei told the king. “Lord Stark was returning drunk from a
brothel. His men attacked Jaime and his guards, even as his wife
attacked Tyrion on the kingsroad.”
“You know me better than that, Robert,” Ned said.
“Ask Lord Baelish if you doubt me. He was there.”
“I’ve talked to Littlefinger,” Robert said.
“He claims he rode off to bring the gold cloaks before the
fighting began, but he admits you were returning from some
whorehouse.”
“Some whorehouse? Damn your eyes, Robert, I went there to
have a look at your daughter! Her mother has named her Barra. She
looks like that first girl you fathered, when we were boys together
in the Vale.” He watched the queen as he spoke; her face was
a mask, still and pale, betraying nothing.
Robert flushed. “Barra,” he grumbled. “Is that
supposed to please me? Damn the girl. I thought she had more
sense.”
“She cannot be more than fifteen, and a whore, and you
thought she had sense?” Ned said, incredulous. His leg was
beginning to pain him sorely. It was hard to keep his temper.
“The fool child is in love with you, Robert.”
The king glanced at Cersei. “This is no fit subject for
the queen’s ears.”
“Her Grace will have no liking for anything I have to
say,” Ned replied. “I am told the Kingslayer has fled
the city. Give me leave to bring him back to justice.”
The king swirled the wine in his cup, brooding. He took a
swallow. “No,” he said. “I want no more of this.
Jaime slew three of your men, and you five of his. Now it
ends.”
“Is that your notion of justice?” Ned flared.
“If so, I am pleased that I am no longer your
Hand.”
The queen looked to her husband. “If any man had dared
speak to a Targaryen as he has spoken to you—”
“Do you take me for Aerys?” Robert interrupted.
“I took you for a king. Jaime and Tyrion are your own
brothers, by all the laws of marriage and the bonds we share. The
Starks have driven off the one and seized the other. This man
dishonors you with every breath he takes, and yet you stand there
meekly, asking if his leg pains him and would he like some
wine.”
Robert’s face was dark with anger. “How many times
must I tell you to hold your tongue, woman?”
Cersei’s face was a study in contempt. “What a jape
the gods have made of us two,” she said. “By all
rights, you ought to be in skirts and me in mail.”
Purple with rage, the king lashed out, a vicious backhand blow
to the side of the head. She stumbled against the table and fell
hard, yet Cersei Lannister did not cry out. Her slender fingers
brushed her cheek, where the pale smooth skin was already
reddening. On the morrow the bruise would cover half her face.
“I shall wear this as a badge of honor,” she
announced.
“Wear it in silence, or I’ll honor you again,”
Robert vowed. He shouted for a guard. Ser Meryn Trant stepped into
the room, tall and somber in his white armor. “The queen is
tired. See her to her bedchamber.” The knight helped Cersei
to her feet and led her out without a word.
Robert reached for the flagon and refilled his cup. “You
see what she does to me, Ned.” The king seated himself,
cradling his wine cup. “My loving wife. The mother of my
children.” The rage was gone from him now; in his eyes Ned
saw something sad and scared. “I should not have hit her.
That was not . . . that was not kingly.” He stared down at
his hands, as if he did not quite know what they were. “I was
always strong . . . no one could stand before me, no one. How do
you fight someone if you can’t hit them?” Confused, the
king shook his head. “Rhaegar . . . Rhaegar won, damn him. I
killed him, Ned, I drove the spike right through that black armor
into his black heart, and he died at my feet. They made up songs
about it. Yet somehow he still won. He has Lyanna now, and I have
her.” The king drained his cup.
“Your Grace,” Ned Stark said, “we must talk . . . ”
Robert pressed his fingertips against his temples. “I am
sick unto death of talk. On the morrow I’m going to the
kingswood to hunt. Whatever you have to say can wait until I
return.”
“If the gods are good, I shall not be here on your return.
You commanded me to return to Winterfell, remember?”
Robert stood up, grasping one of the bedposts to steady himself.
“The gods are seldom good, Ned. Here, this is yours.”
He pulled the heavy silver hand clasp from a pocket in the lining
of his cloak and tossed it on the bed. “Like it or not, you
are my Hand, damn you. I forbid you to leave.”
Ned picked up the silver clasp. He was being given no choice, it
seemed. His leg throbbed, and he felt as helpless as a child.
“The Targaryen girl—”
The king groaned. “Seven hells, don’t start with her
again. That’s done, I’ll hear no more of it.”
“Why would you want me as your Hand, if you refuse to
listen to my counsel?”
“Why?” Robert laughed. “Why not? Someone has
to rule this damnable kingdom. Put on the badge, Ned. It suits you.
And if you ever throw it in my face again, I swear to you,
I’ll pin the damned thing on Jaime Lannister.”
He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in
white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of
blood.
In the dream his friends rode with him, as they had in life.
Proud Martyn Cassel, Jory’s father; faithful Theo Wull; Ethan
Glover, who had been Brandon’s squire; Ser Mark Ryswell, soft
of speech and gentle of heart; the crannogman, Howland Reed; Lord
Dustin on his great red stallion. Ned had known their faces as well
as he knew his own once, but the years leech at a man’s
memories, even those he has vowed never to forget. In the dream
they were only shadows, grey wraiths on horses made of mist.
They were seven, facing three. In the dream as it had been in
life. Yet these were no ordinary three. They waited before the
round tower, the red mountains of Dorne at their backs, their white
cloaks blowing in the wind. And these were no shadows; their faces
burned clear, even now. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning,
had a sad smile on his lips. The hilt of the greatsword Dawn poked
up over his right shoulder. Ser Oswell Whent was on one knee,
sharpening his blade with a whetstone. Across his white-enameled
helm, the black bat of his House spread its wings. Between them
stood fierce old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord
Commander of the Kingsguard.
“I looked for you on the Trident,” Ned said to
them.
“We were not there,” Ser Gerold answered.
“Woe to the Usurper if we had been,” said Ser
Oswell.
“When King’s Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king
with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were.”
“Far away,” Ser Gerold said, “or Aerys would
yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven
hells.”
“I came down on Storm’s End to lift the
siege,” Ned told them, “and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne
dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge
us fealty. I was certain you would be among them.”
“Our knees do not bend easily,” said Ser Arthur
Dayne.
“Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen
and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with
him.”
“Ser Willem is a good man and true,” said Ser
Oswell.
“But not of the Kingsguard,” Ser Gerold pointed out.
“The Kingsguard does not flee.”
“Then or now,” said Ser Arthur. He donned his
helm.
“We swore a vow,” explained old Ser Gerold.
Ned’s wraiths moved up beside him, with shadow swords in
hand. They were seven against three.
“And now it begins,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, the
Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both
hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.
“No,” Ned said with sadness in his voice. “Now
it ends.” As they came together in a rush of steel and
shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. “Eddard!” she
called. A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as
blue as the eyes of death.
“Lord Eddard,” Lyanna called again.
“I promise,” he whispered. “Lya, I promise . . . ”
“Lord Eddard,” a man echoed from the dark.
Groaning, Eddard Stark opened his eyes. Moonlight streamed
through the tall windows of the Tower of the Hand.
“Lord Eddard?” A shadow stood over the bed.
“How . . . how long?” The sheets were tangled, his
leg splinted and plastered. A dull throb of pain shot up his
side.
“Six days and seven nights.” The voice was Vayon
Poole’s. The steward held a cup to Ned’s lips.
“Drink, my lord.”
“What . . . ?”
“Only water. Maester Pycelle said you would be
thirsty.”
Ned drank. His lips were parched and cracked. The water tasted
sweet as honey.
“The king left orders,” Vayon Poole told him when
the cup was empty. “He would speak with you, my
lord.”
“On the morrow,” Ned said. “When I am
stronger.” He could not face Robert now. The dream had left
him weak as a kitten.
“My lord,” Poole said, “he commanded us to
send you to him the moment you opened your eyes.” The steward
busied himself lighting a bedside candle.
Ned cursed softly. Robert was never known for his patience.
“Tell him I’m too weak to come to him. If he wishes to
speak with me, I should be pleased to receive him here. I hope you
wake him from a sound sleep. And summon . . . ” He was about
to say Jory when he remembered. “Summon the captain of my
guard.”
Alyn stepped into the bedchamber a few moments after the steward
had taken his leave. “My lord.”
“Poole tells me it has been six days,” Ned said.
“I must know how things stand.”
“The Kingslayer is fled the city,” Alyn told him.
“The talk is he’s ridden back to Casterly Rock to join
his father. The story of how Lady Catelyn took the Imp is on every
lip. I have put on extra guards, if it please you.”
“It does,” Ned assured him. “My
daughters?”
“They have been with you every day, my lord. Sansa prays
quietly, but Arya . . . ” He hesitated. “She has not
said a word since they brought you back. She is a fierce little
thing, my lord. I have never seen such anger in a girl.”
“Whatever happens,” Ned said, “I want my
daughters kept safe. I fear this is only the beginning.”
“No harm will come to them, Lord Eddard,” Alyn said.
“I stake my life on that.”
“Jory and the others . . . ”
“I gave them over to the silent sisters, to be sent north to
Winterfell. Jory would want to lie beside his
grandfather.”
It would have to be his grandfather, for Jory’s father was
buried far to the south. Martyn Cassel had perished with the rest.
Ned had pulled the tower down afterward, and used its bloody stones
to build eight cairns upon the ridge. It was said that Rhaegar had
named that place the tower of joy, but for Ned it was a bitter
memory. They had been seven against three, yet only two had lived
to ride away; Eddard Stark himself and the little crannogman,
Howland Reed. He did not think it omened well that he should dream
that dream again after so many years.
“You’ve done well, Alyn,” Ned was saying when
Vayon Poole returned. The steward bowed low. “His Grace is
without, my lord, and the queen with him.”
Ned pushed himself up higher, wincing as his leg trembled with
pain. He had not expected Cersei to come. It did not bode well that
she had. “Send them in, and leave us. What we have to say
should not go beyond these walls.” Poole withdrew
quietly.
Robert had taken time to dress. He wore a black velvet doublet
with the crowned stag of Baratheon worked upon the breast in golden
thread, and a golden mantle with a cloak of black and gold squares.
A flagon of wine was in his hand, his face already flushed from
drink. Cersei Lannister entered behind him, a jeweled tiara in her
hair.
“Your Grace,” Ned said. “Your pardons. I
cannot rise.”
“No matter,” the king said gruffly. “Some
wine? From the Arbor. A good vintage.”
“A small cup,” Ned said. “My head is still
heavy from the milk of the poppy.”
“A man in your place should count himself fortunate that
his head is still on his shoulders,” the queen declared.
“Quiet, woman,” Robert snapped. He brought Ned a cup
of wine. “Does the leg still pain you?”
“Some,” Ned said. His head was swimming, but it
would not do to admit to weakness in front of the queen.
“Pycelle swears it will heal clean.” Robert frowned.
“I take it you know what Catelyn has done?”
“I do.” Ned took a small swallow of wine. “My
lady wife is blameless, Your Grace. All she did she did at my
command.”
“I am not pleased, Ned,” Robert grumbled.
“By what right do you dare lay hands on my blood?”
Cersei demanded. “Who do you think you are?”
“The Hand of the King,” Ned told her with icy
courtesy. “Charged by your own lord husband to keep the
king’s peace and enforce the king’s justice.”
“You were the Hand,” Cersei began, “but
now—”
“Silence!” the king roared. “You asked him a
question and he answered it.” Cersei subsided, cold with
anger, and Robert turned back to Ned. “Keep the king’s
peace, you say. Is this how you keep my peace, Ned? Seven men are
dead . . . ”
“Eight,” the queen corrected. “Tregar died
this morning, of the blow Lord Stark gave him.”
“Abductions on the kingsroad and drunken slaughter in my
streets,” the king said. “I will not have it,
Ned.”
“Catelyn had good reason for taking the Imp—”
“I said, I will not have it! To hell with her reasons. You
will command her to release the dwarf at once, and you will make
your peace with Jaime.”
“Three of my men were butchered before my eyes, because
Jaime Lannister wished to chasten me. Am I to forget
that?”
“My brother was not the cause of this quarrel,”
Cersei told the king. “Lord Stark was returning drunk from a
brothel. His men attacked Jaime and his guards, even as his wife
attacked Tyrion on the kingsroad.”
“You know me better than that, Robert,” Ned said.
“Ask Lord Baelish if you doubt me. He was there.”
“I’ve talked to Littlefinger,” Robert said.
“He claims he rode off to bring the gold cloaks before the
fighting began, but he admits you were returning from some
whorehouse.”
“Some whorehouse? Damn your eyes, Robert, I went there to
have a look at your daughter! Her mother has named her Barra. She
looks like that first girl you fathered, when we were boys together
in the Vale.” He watched the queen as he spoke; her face was
a mask, still and pale, betraying nothing.
Robert flushed. “Barra,” he grumbled. “Is that
supposed to please me? Damn the girl. I thought she had more
sense.”
“She cannot be more than fifteen, and a whore, and you
thought she had sense?” Ned said, incredulous. His leg was
beginning to pain him sorely. It was hard to keep his temper.
“The fool child is in love with you, Robert.”
The king glanced at Cersei. “This is no fit subject for
the queen’s ears.”
“Her Grace will have no liking for anything I have to
say,” Ned replied. “I am told the Kingslayer has fled
the city. Give me leave to bring him back to justice.”
The king swirled the wine in his cup, brooding. He took a
swallow. “No,” he said. “I want no more of this.
Jaime slew three of your men, and you five of his. Now it
ends.”
“Is that your notion of justice?” Ned flared.
“If so, I am pleased that I am no longer your
Hand.”
The queen looked to her husband. “If any man had dared
speak to a Targaryen as he has spoken to you—”
“Do you take me for Aerys?” Robert interrupted.
“I took you for a king. Jaime and Tyrion are your own
brothers, by all the laws of marriage and the bonds we share. The
Starks have driven off the one and seized the other. This man
dishonors you with every breath he takes, and yet you stand there
meekly, asking if his leg pains him and would he like some
wine.”
Robert’s face was dark with anger. “How many times
must I tell you to hold your tongue, woman?”
Cersei’s face was a study in contempt. “What a jape
the gods have made of us two,” she said. “By all
rights, you ought to be in skirts and me in mail.”
Purple with rage, the king lashed out, a vicious backhand blow
to the side of the head. She stumbled against the table and fell
hard, yet Cersei Lannister did not cry out. Her slender fingers
brushed her cheek, where the pale smooth skin was already
reddening. On the morrow the bruise would cover half her face.
“I shall wear this as a badge of honor,” she
announced.
“Wear it in silence, or I’ll honor you again,”
Robert vowed. He shouted for a guard. Ser Meryn Trant stepped into
the room, tall and somber in his white armor. “The queen is
tired. See her to her bedchamber.” The knight helped Cersei
to her feet and led her out without a word.
Robert reached for the flagon and refilled his cup. “You
see what she does to me, Ned.” The king seated himself,
cradling his wine cup. “My loving wife. The mother of my
children.” The rage was gone from him now; in his eyes Ned
saw something sad and scared. “I should not have hit her.
That was not . . . that was not kingly.” He stared down at
his hands, as if he did not quite know what they were. “I was
always strong . . . no one could stand before me, no one. How do
you fight someone if you can’t hit them?” Confused, the
king shook his head. “Rhaegar . . . Rhaegar won, damn him. I
killed him, Ned, I drove the spike right through that black armor
into his black heart, and he died at my feet. They made up songs
about it. Yet somehow he still won. He has Lyanna now, and I have
her.” The king drained his cup.
“Your Grace,” Ned Stark said, “we must talk . . . ”
Robert pressed his fingertips against his temples. “I am
sick unto death of talk. On the morrow I’m going to the
kingswood to hunt. Whatever you have to say can wait until I
return.”
“If the gods are good, I shall not be here on your return.
You commanded me to return to Winterfell, remember?”
Robert stood up, grasping one of the bedposts to steady himself.
“The gods are seldom good, Ned. Here, this is yours.”
He pulled the heavy silver hand clasp from a pocket in the lining
of his cloak and tossed it on the bed. “Like it or not, you
are my Hand, damn you. I forbid you to leave.”
Ned picked up the silver clasp. He was being given no choice, it
seemed. His leg throbbed, and he felt as helpless as a child.
“The Targaryen girl—”
The king groaned. “Seven hells, don’t start with her
again. That’s done, I’ll hear no more of it.”
“Why would you want me as your Hand, if you refuse to
listen to my counsel?”
“Why?” Robert laughed. “Why not? Someone has
to rule this damnable kingdom. Put on the badge, Ned. It suits you.
And if you ever throw it in my face again, I swear to you,
I’ll pin the damned thing on Jaime Lannister.”