He was walking through the crypts beneath
Winterfell, as he he had walked a thousand times before. The Kings of
Winter watched him pass with eyes of ice, and the direwolves at
their feet turned their great stone heads and snarled. Last of all,
he came to the tomb where his father slept, with Brandon and Lyanna
beside him. “Promise me, Ned,” Lyanna’s statue
whispered. She wore a garland of pale blue roses, and her eyes wept
blood.
Eddard Stark jerked upright, his heart racing, the blankets
tangled around him. The room was black as pitch, and someone was
hammering on the door. “Lord Eddard,” a voice called
loudly.
“A moment.” Groggy and naked, he stumbled his way
across the darkened chamber. When he opened the door, he found
Tomard with an upraised fist, and Cayn with a taper in hand.
Between them stood the king’s own steward.
The man’s face might have been carved of stone, so little
did it show. “My lord Hand,” he intoned. “His
Grace the King commands your presence. At once.”
So Robert had returned from his hunt. It was long past time.
“I shall need a few moments to dress.” Ned left the man
waiting without. Cayn helped him with his clothes; white linen
tunic and grey cloak, trousers cut open down his plaster-sheathed
leg, his badge of office, and last of all a belt of heavy silver
links. He sheathed the Valyrian dagger at his waist.
The Red Keep was dark and still as Cayn and Tomard escorted him
across the inner bailey. The moon hung low over the walls, ripening
toward full. On the ramparts, a guardsman in a gold cloak walked
his rounds.
The royal apartments were in Maegor’s Holdfast, a massive
square fortress that nestled in the heart of the Red Keep behind
walls twelve feet thick and a dry moat lined with iron spikes, a
castle-within-a-castle. Ser Boros Blount guarded the far end of the
bridge, white steel armor ghostly in the moonlight. Within, Ned
passed two other knights of the Kingsguard; Ser Preston Greenfield
stood at the bottom of the steps, and Ser Barristan Selmy waited at
the door of the king’s bedchamber. Three men in white cloaks,
he thought, remembering, and a strange chill went through him. Ser
Barristan’s face was as pale as his armor. Ned had only to
look at him to know that something was dreadfully wrong. The royal
steward opened the door. “Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the
King,” he announced.
“Bring him here,” Robert’s voice called,
strangely thick.
Fires blazed in the twin hearths at either end of the
bedchamber, filling the room with a sullen red glare. The heat
within was suffocating. Robert lay across the canopied bed. At the
bedside hovered Grand Maester Pycelle, while Lord Renly paced
restlessly before the shuttered windows. Servants moved back and
forth, feeding logs to the fire and boiling wine. Cersei Lannister
sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband. Her hair was
tousled, as if from sleep, but there was nothing sleepy in her
eyes. They followed Ned as Tomard and Cayn helped him cross the
room. He seemed to move very slowly, as if he were still
dreaming.
The king still wore his boots. Ned could see dried mud and
blades of grass clinging to the leather where Robert’s feet
stuck out beneath the blanket that covered him, A green doublet lay
on the floor, slashed open and discarded, the cloth crusted with
red-brown stains. The room smelled of smoke and blood and
death.
“Ned,” the king whispered when he saw him. His face
was pale as milk. “Come . . . closer.”
His men brought him close. Ned steadied himself with a hand on
the bedpost. He had only to look down at Robert to know how bad it
was. “What . . . ?” he began, his throat clenched.
“A boar.” Lord Renly was still in his hunting
greens, his cloak spattered with blood.
“A devil,” the king husked. “My own fault. Too
much wine, damn me to hell. Missed my thrust.”
“And where were the rest of you?” Ned demanded of
Lord Renly. “Where was Ser Barristan and the
Kingsguard?”
Renly’s mouth twitched. “My brother commanded us to
stand aside and let him take the boar alone.”
Eddard Stark lifted the blanket.
They had done what they could to close him up, but it was
nowhere near enough. The boar must have been a fearsome thing. It
had ripped the king from groin to nipple with its tusks. The
wine-soaked bandages that Grand Maester Pycelle had applied were
already black with blood, and the smell off the wound was hideous.
Ned’s stomach turned. He let the blanket fall.
“Stinks,” Robert said. “The stink of death,
don’t think I can’t smell it. Bastard did me good, eh?
But I . . . I paid him back in kind, Ned.” The king’s
smile was as terrible as his wound, his teeth red. “Drove a
knife right through his eye. Ask them if I didn’t. Ask
them.”
“Truly,” Lord Renly murmured. “We brought the
carcass back with us, at my brother’s command.”
“For the feast,” Robert whispered. “Now leave
us. The lot of you. I need to speak with Ned.”
“Robert, my sweet lord . . . ” Cersei began.
“I said leave,” Robert insisted with a hint of his
old fierceness. “What part of that don’t you
understand, woman?”
Cersei gathered up her skirts and her dignity and led the way to
the door. Lord Renly and the others followed. Grand Maester Pycelle
lingered, his hands shaking as he offered the king a cup of thick
white liquid. “The milk of the poppy, Your Grace,” he
said. “Drink. For your pain.”
Robert knocked the cup away with the back of his hand.
“Away with you. I’ll sleep soon enough, old fool. Get
out.”
Grand Maester Pycelle gave Ned a stricken look as he shuffled
from the room.
“Damn you, Robert,” Ned said when they were alone.
His leg was throbbing so badly he was almost blind with pain. Or
perhaps it was grief that fogged his eyes. He lowered himself to
the bed, beside his friend. “Why do you always have to be so
headstrong?”
“Ah, fuck you, Ned,” the king said hoarsely.
“I killed the bastard, didn’t I?” A lock of
matted black hair fell across his eyes as he glared up at Ned.
“Ought to do the same for you. Can’t leave a man to
hunt in peace. Ser Robar found me. Gregor’s head. Ugly
thought. Never told the Hound. Let Cersei surprise him.” His
laugh turned into a grunt as a spasm of pain hit him. “Gods
have mercy,” he muttered, swallowing his agony. “The
girl. Daenerys. Only a child, you were right . . . that’s why,
the girl . . . the gods sent the boar . . . sent to punish me . .
.” The king coughed, bringing up blood. “Wrong, it was
wrong, I . . . only a girl . . . Varys, Littlefinger, even my
brother . . . worthless . . . no one to tell me no but you, Ned . .
. only you . . . ” He lifted his hand, the gesture pained and
feeble. “Paper and ink. There, on the table. Write what I
tell you.”
Ned smoothed the paper out across his knee and took up the
quill. “At your command, Your Grace.”
“This is the will and word of Robert of House Baratheon,
the First of his Name, King of the Andals and all the rest—put in
the damn titles, you know how it goes. I do hereby command Eddard
of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, to serve
as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my . . . upon my
death . . . to rule in my . . . in my stead, until my son Joffrey
does come of age . . . ”
“Robert . . . ” Joffrey is not your son, he wanted to say, but
the words would not come. The agony was written too plainly across
Robert’s face; he could not hurt him more. So Ned bent his
head and wrote, but where the king had said “my son
Joffrey,” he scrawled “my heir” instead. The
deceit made him feel soiled. The lies we tell for love, he thought.
May the gods forgive me. “What else would you have me
say?”
“Say . . . whatever you need to. Protect and defend, gods
old and new, you have the words. Write. I’ll sign it. You
give it to the council when I’m dead.”
“Robert,” Ned said in a voice thick with grief,
“you must not do this. Don’t die on me. The realm needs
you.”
Robert took his hand, fingers squeezing hard. “You are . . . such a bad liar, Ned Stark,” he said through his pain.
“The realm . . . the realm knows . . . what a wretched king
I’ve been. Bad as Aerys, the gods spare me.”
“No,” Ned told his dying friend, “not so bad
as Aerys, Your Grace. Not near so bad as Aerys.”
Robert managed a weak red smile. “At the least, they will
say . . . this last thing . . . this I did right. You won’t
fail me. You’ll rule now. You’ll hate it, worse than I
did . . . but you’ll do well. Are you done with the
scribbling?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Ned offered Robert the paper. The
king scrawled his signature blindly, leaving a smear of blood
across the letter. “The seal should be witnessed.”
“Serve the boar at my funeral feast,” Robert rasped.
“Apple in its mouth, skin seared crisp. Eat the bastard.
Don’t care if you choke on him. Promise me, Ned.”
“I promise.” Promise me, Ned, Lyanna’s voice
echoed.
“The girl,” the king said. “Daenerys. Let her
live. If you can, if it . . . not too late . . . talk to them . . . Varys, Littlefinger . . . don’t let them kill her. And help
my son, Ned. Make him be . . . better than me.” He winced.
“Gods have mercy.”
“They will, my friend,” Ned said. “They
will.”
The king closed his eyes and seemed to relax. “Killed by a
pig,” he muttered. “Ought to laugh, but it hurts too
much.”
Ned was not laughing. “Shall I call them back?”
Robert gave a weak nod. “As you will. Gods, why is it so
cold in here?”
The servants rushed back in and hurried to feed the fires. The
queen had gone; that was some small relief, at least. If she had
any sense, Cersei would take her children and fly before the break
of day, Ned thought. She had lingered too long already.
King Robert did not seem to miss her. He bid his brother Renly
and Grand Maester Pycelle to stand in witness as he pressed his
seal into the hot yellow wax that Ned had dripped upon his letter.
“Now give me something for the pain and let me
die.”
Hurriedly Grand Maester Pycelle mixed him another draught of the
milk of the poppy. This time the king drank deeply. His black beard
was beaded with thick white droplets when he threw the empty cup
aside. “Will I dream?”
Ned gave him his answer. “You will, my lord.”
“Good,” he said, smiling. “I will give Lyanna
your love, Ned. Take care of my children for me.”
The words twisted in Ned’s belly like a knife. For a
moment he was at a loss. He could not bring himself to lie. Then he
remembered the bastards: little Barra at her mother’s breast,
Mya in the Vale, Gendry at his forge, and all the others. “I
shall . . . guard your children as if they were my own,” he
said slowly.
Robert nodded and closed his eyes. Ned watched his old friend
sag softly into the pillows as the milk of the poppy washed the
pain from his face. Sleep took him.
Heavy chains jangled softly as Grand Maester Pycelle came up to
Ned. “I will do all in my power, my lord, but the wound has
mortified. It took them two days to get him back. By the time I saw
him, it was too late. I can lessen His Grace’s suffering, but
only the gods can heal him now.”
“How long?” Ned asked.
“By rights, he should be dead already. I have never seen a
man cling to life so fiercely.”
“My brother was always strong,” Lord Renly said.
“Not wise, perhaps, but strong.” In the sweltering heat
of the bedchamber, his brow was slick with sweat. He might have
been Robert’s ghost as he stood there, young and dark and
handsome. “He slew the boar. His entrails were sliding from
his belly, yet somehow he slew the boar.” His voice was full
of wonder.
“Robert was never a man to leave the battleground so long
as a foe remained standing,” Ned told him.
Outside the door, Ser Barristan Selmy still guarded the tower
stairs. “Maester Pycelle has given Robert the milk of the
poppy,” Ned told him. “See that no one disturbs his
rest without leave from me.”
“It shall be as you command, my lord.” Ser
Barristan seemed old beyond his years. “I have failed my
sacred trust.”
“Even the truest knight cannot protect a king against
himself,” Ned said. “Robert loved to hunt boar. I have
seen him take a thousand of them.” He would stand his ground
without flinching, his legs braced, the great spear in his hands,
and as often as not he would curse the boar as it charged, and wait
until the last possible second, until it was almost on him, before
he killed it with a single sure and savage thrust. “No one
could know this one would be his death.”
“You are kind to say so, Lord Eddard.”
“The king himself said as much. He blamed the
wine.”
The white-haired knight gave a weary nod. “His Grace was
reeling in his saddle by the time we flushed the boar from his
lair, yet he commanded us all to stand aside.”
“I wonder, Ser Barristan,” asked Varys, so quietly,
“who gave the king this wine?”
Ned had not heard the eunuch approach, but when he looked
around, there he stood. He wore a black velvet robe that brushed
the floor, and his face was freshly powdered.
“The wine was from the king’s own skin,” Ser
Barristan said.
“Only one skin? Hunting is such thirsty work.”
“I did not keep count. More than one, for a certainty. His
squire would fetch him a fresh skin whenever he required
it.”
“Such a dutiful boy,” said Varys, “to make
certain His Grace did not lack for refreshment.”
Ned had a bitter taste in his mouth. He recalled the two
fair-haired boys Robert had sent chasing after a breastplate
stretcher. The king had told everyone the tale that night at the
feast, laughing until he shook. “Which squire?”
“The elder,” said Ser Barristan.
“Lancel.”
“I know the lad well,” said Varys. “A stalwart
boy, Ser Kevan Lannister’s son, nephew to Lord Tywin and
cousin to the queen. I hope the dear sweet lad does not blame
himself. Children are so vulnerable in the innocence of their
youth, how well do I remember.”
Certainly Varys had once been young. Ned doubted that he had
ever been innocent. “You mention children. Robert had a
change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryen. Whatever
arrangements you made, I want unmade. At once.”
“Alas,” said Varys. “At once may be too late.
I fear those birds have flown. But I shall do what I can, my lord.
With your leave.” He bowed and vanished down the steps, his
soft-soled slippers whispering against the stone as he made his
descent.
Cayn and Tomard were helping Ned across the bridge when Lord
Renly emerged from Maegor’s Holdfast. “Lord
Eddard,” he called after Ned, “a moment, if you would
be so kind.”
Ned stopped. “As you wish.”
Renly walked to his side. “Send your men away.” They
met in the center of the bridge, the dry moat beneath them.
Moonlight silvered the cruel edges of the spikes that lined its
bed.
Ned gestured. Tomard and Cayn bowed their heads and backed away
respectfully. Lord Renly glanced warily at Ser Boros on the far end
of the span, at Ser Preston in the doorway behind them. “That
letter.” He leaned close. “Was it the regency? Has my
brother named you Protector?” He did not wait for a reply.
“My lord, I have thirty men in my personal guard, and other
friends beside, knights and lords. Give me an hour, and I can put a
hundred swords in your hand.”
“And what should I do with a hundred swords, my
lord?”
“Strike! Now, while the castle sleeps.” Renly looked
back at Ser Boros again and dropped his voice to an urgent whisper.
“We must get Joffrey away from his mother and take him in
hand. Protector or no, the man who holds the king holds the
kingdom. We should seize Myrcella and Tommen as well. Once we have
her children, Cersei will not dare oppose us. The council will
confirm you as Lord Protector and make Joffrey your
ward.”
Ned regarded him coldly. “Robert is not dead yet. The gods
may spare him. If not, I shall convene the council to hear his
final words and consider the matter of the succession, but I will
not dishonor his last hours on earth by shedding blood in his halls
and dragging frightened children from their beds.”
Lord Renly took a step back, taut as a bowstring. “Every
moment you delay gives Cersei another moment to prepare. By the
time Robert dies, it may be too late . . . for both of
us.”
“Then we should pray that Robert does not die.”
“Small chance of that,” said Renly.
“Sometimes the gods are merciful.”
“The Lannisters are not.” Lord Renly turned away and
went back across the moat, to the tower where his brother lay
dying.
By the time Ned returned to his chambers, he felt weary and
heartsick, yet there was no question of his going back to sleep,
not now. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die,
Cersei Lannister had told him in the godswood. He found himself
wondering if he had done the right thing by refusing Lord
Renly’s offer. He had no taste for these intrigues, and there
was no honor in threatening children, and yet . . . if Cersei
elected to fight rather than flee, he might well have need of
Renly’s hundred swords, and more besides.
“I want Littlefinger,” he told Cayn. “If
he’s not in his chambers, take as many men as you need and
search every winesink and whorehouse in King’s Landing until
you find him. Bring him to me before break of day.” Cayn
bowed and took his leave, and Ned turned to Tomard. “The Wind
Witch sails on the evening tide. Have you chosen the
escort?”
“Ten men, with Porther in command.”
“Twenty, and you will command,” Ned said. Porther
was a brave man, but headstrong. He wanted someone more solid and
sensible to keep watch over his daughters.
“As you wish, m’lord,” Tom said.
“Can’t say I’ll be sad to see the back of this
place. I miss the wife.”
“You will pass near Dragonstone when you turn north. I
need you to deliver a letter for me.”
Tom looked apprehensive. “To Dragonstone,
m’lord?” The island fortress of House Targaryen had a
sinister repute.
“Tell Captain Qos to hoist my banner as soon as he comes
in sight of the island. They may be wary of unexpected visitors. If
he is reluctant, offer him whatever it takes. I will give you a
letter to place into the hand of Lord Stannis Baratheon. No one
else. Not his steward, nor the captain of his guard, nor his lady
wife, but only Lord Stannis himself.”
“As you command, m’lord.”
When Tomard had left him, Lord Eddard Stark sat staring at the
flame of the candle that burned beside him on the table. For a
moment his grief overwhelmed him. He wanted nothing so much as to
seek out the godswood, to kneel before the heart tree and pray for
the life of Robert Baratheon, who had been more than a brother to
him. Men would whisper afterward that Eddard Stark had betrayed his
king’s friendship and disinherited his sons; he could only
hope that the gods would know better, and that Robert would learn
the truth of it in the land beyond the grave.
Ned took out the king’s last letter. A roll of crisp white
parchment sealed with golden wax, a few short words and a smear of
blood. How small the difference between victory and defeat, between
life and death.
He drew out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his quill in the
inkpot. To His Grace, Stannis of the House Baratheon, he wrote. By
the time you receive this letter, your brother Robert, our King
these past fifteen years, will be dead. He was savaged by a boar
whilst hunting in the kingswood . . .
The letters seemed to writhe and twist on the paper as his hand
trailed to a stop. Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime were not men to suffer
disgrace meekly; they would fight rather than flee. No doubt Lord
Stannis was wary, after the murder of Jon Arryn, but it was
imperative that he sail for King’s Landing at once with all
his power, before the Lannisters could march.
Ned chose each word with care. When he was done, he signed the
letter Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, and
Protector of the Realm, blotted the paper, folded it twice, and
melted the sealing wax over the candle flame.
His regency would be a short one, he reflected as the wax
softened. The new king would choose his own Hand. Ned would be free
to go home. The thought of Winterfell brought a wan smile to his
face. He wanted to hear Bran’s laughter once more, to go
hawking with Robb, to watch Rickon at play. He wanted to drift off
to a dreamless sleep in his own bed with his arms wrapped tight
around his lady, Catelyn.
Cayn returned as he was pressing the direwolf seal down into the
soft white wax. Desmond was with him, and between them
Littlefinger. Ned thanked his guards and sent them away.
Lord Petyr was clad in a blue velvet tunic with puffed sleeves,
his silvery cape patterned with mockingbirds. “I suppose
congratulations are in order,” he said as he seated
himself.
Ned scowled. “The king lies wounded and near to
death.”
“I know,” Littlefinger said. “I also know that
Robert has named you Protector of the Realm.”
Ned’s eyes flicked to the king’s letter on the table
beside him, its seal unbroken. “And how is it you know that,
my lord?”
“Varys hinted as much,” Littlefinger said,
“and you have just confirmed it.”
Ned’s mouth twisted in anger. “Damn Varys and his
little birds. Catelyn spoke truly, the man has some black art. I do
not trust him.”
“Excellent. You’re learning.” Littlefinger
leaned forward. “Yet I’ll wager you did not drag me
here in the black of night to discuss the eunuch.”
“No,” Ned admitted. “I know the secret Jon
Arryn was murdered to protect. Robert will leave no trueborn son
behind him. Joffrey and Tommen are Jaime Lannister’s
bastards, born of his incestuous union with the queen.”
Littlefinger lifted an eyebrow. “Shocking,” he said
in a tone that suggested he was not shocked at all. “The girl
as well? No doubt. So when the king dies . . . ”
“The throne by rights passes to Lord Stannis, the elder of
Robert’s two brothers.”
Lord Petyr stroked his pointed beard as he considered the
matter. “So it would seem. Unless . . . ”
“Unless, my lord? There is no seeming to this. Stannis is
the heir. Nothing can change that.”
“Stannis cannot take the throne without your help. If
you’re wise, you’ll make certain Joffrey
succeeds.”
Ned gave him a stony stare. “Have you no shred of
honor?”
“Oh, a shred, surely,” Littlefinger replied
negligently. “Hear me out. Stannis is no friend of yours, nor
of mine. Even his brothers can scarcely stomach him. The man is
iron, hard and unyielding. He’ll give us a new Hand and a new
council, for a certainty. No doubt he’ll thank you for
handing him the crown, but he won’t love you for it. And his
ascent will mean war. Stannis cannot rest easy on the throne until
Cersei and her bastards are dead. Do you think Lord Tywin will sit
idly while his daughter’s head is measured for a spike?
Casterly Rock will rise, and not alone. Robert found it in him to
pardon men who served King Aerys, so long as they did him fealty.
Stannis is less forgiving. He will not have forgotten the siege of
Storm’s End, and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dare not. Every
man who fought beneath the dragon banner or rose with Balon Greyjoy
will have good cause to fear. Seat Stannis on the Iron Throne and I
promise you, the realm will bleed.
“Now look at the other side of the coin. Joffrey is but
twelve, and Robert gave you the regency, my lord. You are the Hand
of the King and Protector of the Realm. The power is yours, Lord
Stark. All you need do is reach out and take it. Make your peace
with the Lannisters. Release the Imp. Wed Joffrey to your Sansa.
Wed your younger girl to Prince Tommen, and your heir to Myrcella. It will be four years
before Joffrey comes of age. By then he will look to you as a
second father, and if not, well . . . four years is a good long
while, my lord. Long enough to dispose of Lord Stannis. Then,
should Joffrey prove troublesome, we can reveal his little secret
and put Lord Renly on the throne.”
“We?” Ned repeated.
Littlefinger gave a shrug. “You’ll need someone to
share your burdens. I assure you, my price would be
modest.”
“Your price.” Ned’s voice was ice. “Lord
Baelish, what you suggest is treason.”
“Only if we lose.”
“You forget,” Ned told him. “You forget Jon
Arryn. You forget Jory Cassel. And you forget this.” He drew
the dagger and laid it on the table between them; a length of
dragonbone and Valyrian steel, as sharp as the difference between
right and wrong, between true and false, between life and death.
“They sent a man to cut my son’s throat, Lord
Baelish.”
Littlefinger sighed. “I fear I did forget, my lord. Pray
forgive me. For a moment I did not remember that I was talking to a
Stark.” His mouth quirked. “So it will be Stannis, and
war?”
“It is not a choice. Stannis is the heir.”
“Far be it from me to dispute the Lord Protector. What
would you have of me, then? Not my wisdom, for a
certainty.”
“I shall do my best to forget your . . . wisdom,”
Ned said with distaste. “I called you here to ask for the
help you promised Catelyn. This is a perilous hour for all of us.
Robert has named me Protector, true enough, but in the eyes of the
world, Joffrey is still his son and heir. The queen has a dozen
knights and a hundred men-at-arms who will do whatever she commands
. . . enough to overwhelm what remains of my own household guard.
And for all I know, her brother Jaime may be riding for
King’s Landing even as we speak, with a Lannister host at his
back.”
“And you without an army.” Littlefinger toyed with
the dagger on the table, turning it slowly with a finger.
“There is small love lost between Lord Renly and the
Lannisters. Bronze Yohn Royce, Ser Balon Swann, Ser Loras, Lady
Tanda, the Redwyne twins . . . each of them has a retinue of
knights and sworn swords here at court.”
“Renly has thirty men in his personal guard, the rest even
fewer. It is not enough, even if I could be certain that all of
them will choose to give me their allegiance. I must have the gold
cloaks. The City Watch is two thousand strong, sworn to defend the
castle, the city, and the king’s peace.”
“Ah, but when the queen proclaims one king and the Hand
another, whose peace do they protect?” Lord Petyr flicked at
the dagger with his finger, setting it spinning in place. Round and
round it went, wobbling as it turned. When at last it slowed to a
stop, the blade pointed at Littlefinger. “Why, there’s
your answer,” he said, smiling. “They follow the man
who pays them.” He leaned back and looked Ned full in the
face, his grey-green eyes bright with mockery. “You wear your
honor like a suit of armor, Stark. You think it keeps you safe, but
all it does is weigh you down and make it hard for you to move.
Look at you now. You know why you summoned me here. You know what
you want to ask me to do. You know it has to be done . . . but
it’s not honorable, so the words stick in your
throat.”
Ned’s neck was rigid with tension. For a moment he was so
angry that he did not trust himself to speak.
Littlefinger laughed. “I ought to make you say it, but
that would be cruel . . . so have no fear, my good lord. For the
sake of the love I bear for Catelyn, I will go to Janos Slynt this
very hour and make certain that the City Watch is yours. Six
thousand gold pieces should do it. A third for the Commander, a
third for the officers, a third for the men. We might be able to
buy them for half that much, but I prefer not to take
chances.” Smiling, he plucked up the dagger and offered it to
Ned, hilt first.
He was walking through the crypts beneath
Winterfell, as he he had walked a thousand times before. The Kings of
Winter watched him pass with eyes of ice, and the direwolves at
their feet turned their great stone heads and snarled. Last of all,
he came to the tomb where his father slept, with Brandon and Lyanna
beside him. “Promise me, Ned,” Lyanna’s statue
whispered. She wore a garland of pale blue roses, and her eyes wept
blood.
Eddard Stark jerked upright, his heart racing, the blankets
tangled around him. The room was black as pitch, and someone was
hammering on the door. “Lord Eddard,” a voice called
loudly.
“A moment.” Groggy and naked, he stumbled his way
across the darkened chamber. When he opened the door, he found
Tomard with an upraised fist, and Cayn with a taper in hand.
Between them stood the king’s own steward.
The man’s face might have been carved of stone, so little
did it show. “My lord Hand,” he intoned. “His
Grace the King commands your presence. At once.”
So Robert had returned from his hunt. It was long past time.
“I shall need a few moments to dress.” Ned left the man
waiting without. Cayn helped him with his clothes; white linen
tunic and grey cloak, trousers cut open down his plaster-sheathed
leg, his badge of office, and last of all a belt of heavy silver
links. He sheathed the Valyrian dagger at his waist.
The Red Keep was dark and still as Cayn and Tomard escorted him
across the inner bailey. The moon hung low over the walls, ripening
toward full. On the ramparts, a guardsman in a gold cloak walked
his rounds.
The royal apartments were in Maegor’s Holdfast, a massive
square fortress that nestled in the heart of the Red Keep behind
walls twelve feet thick and a dry moat lined with iron spikes, a
castle-within-a-castle. Ser Boros Blount guarded the far end of the
bridge, white steel armor ghostly in the moonlight. Within, Ned
passed two other knights of the Kingsguard; Ser Preston Greenfield
stood at the bottom of the steps, and Ser Barristan Selmy waited at
the door of the king’s bedchamber. Three men in white cloaks,
he thought, remembering, and a strange chill went through him. Ser
Barristan’s face was as pale as his armor. Ned had only to
look at him to know that something was dreadfully wrong. The royal
steward opened the door. “Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the
King,” he announced.
“Bring him here,” Robert’s voice called,
strangely thick.
Fires blazed in the twin hearths at either end of the
bedchamber, filling the room with a sullen red glare. The heat
within was suffocating. Robert lay across the canopied bed. At the
bedside hovered Grand Maester Pycelle, while Lord Renly paced
restlessly before the shuttered windows. Servants moved back and
forth, feeding logs to the fire and boiling wine. Cersei Lannister
sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband. Her hair was
tousled, as if from sleep, but there was nothing sleepy in her
eyes. They followed Ned as Tomard and Cayn helped him cross the
room. He seemed to move very slowly, as if he were still
dreaming.
The king still wore his boots. Ned could see dried mud and
blades of grass clinging to the leather where Robert’s feet
stuck out beneath the blanket that covered him, A green doublet lay
on the floor, slashed open and discarded, the cloth crusted with
red-brown stains. The room smelled of smoke and blood and
death.
“Ned,” the king whispered when he saw him. His face
was pale as milk. “Come . . . closer.”
His men brought him close. Ned steadied himself with a hand on
the bedpost. He had only to look down at Robert to know how bad it
was. “What . . . ?” he began, his throat clenched.
“A boar.” Lord Renly was still in his hunting
greens, his cloak spattered with blood.
“A devil,” the king husked. “My own fault. Too
much wine, damn me to hell. Missed my thrust.”
“And where were the rest of you?” Ned demanded of
Lord Renly. “Where was Ser Barristan and the
Kingsguard?”
Renly’s mouth twitched. “My brother commanded us to
stand aside and let him take the boar alone.”
Eddard Stark lifted the blanket.
They had done what they could to close him up, but it was
nowhere near enough. The boar must have been a fearsome thing. It
had ripped the king from groin to nipple with its tusks. The
wine-soaked bandages that Grand Maester Pycelle had applied were
already black with blood, and the smell off the wound was hideous.
Ned’s stomach turned. He let the blanket fall.
“Stinks,” Robert said. “The stink of death,
don’t think I can’t smell it. Bastard did me good, eh?
But I . . . I paid him back in kind, Ned.” The king’s
smile was as terrible as his wound, his teeth red. “Drove a
knife right through his eye. Ask them if I didn’t. Ask
them.”
“Truly,” Lord Renly murmured. “We brought the
carcass back with us, at my brother’s command.”
“For the feast,” Robert whispered. “Now leave
us. The lot of you. I need to speak with Ned.”
“Robert, my sweet lord . . . ” Cersei began.
“I said leave,” Robert insisted with a hint of his
old fierceness. “What part of that don’t you
understand, woman?”
Cersei gathered up her skirts and her dignity and led the way to
the door. Lord Renly and the others followed. Grand Maester Pycelle
lingered, his hands shaking as he offered the king a cup of thick
white liquid. “The milk of the poppy, Your Grace,” he
said. “Drink. For your pain.”
Robert knocked the cup away with the back of his hand.
“Away with you. I’ll sleep soon enough, old fool. Get
out.”
Grand Maester Pycelle gave Ned a stricken look as he shuffled
from the room.
“Damn you, Robert,” Ned said when they were alone.
His leg was throbbing so badly he was almost blind with pain. Or
perhaps it was grief that fogged his eyes. He lowered himself to
the bed, beside his friend. “Why do you always have to be so
headstrong?”
“Ah, fuck you, Ned,” the king said hoarsely.
“I killed the bastard, didn’t I?” A lock of
matted black hair fell across his eyes as he glared up at Ned.
“Ought to do the same for you. Can’t leave a man to
hunt in peace. Ser Robar found me. Gregor’s head. Ugly
thought. Never told the Hound. Let Cersei surprise him.” His
laugh turned into a grunt as a spasm of pain hit him. “Gods
have mercy,” he muttered, swallowing his agony. “The
girl. Daenerys. Only a child, you were right . . . that’s why,
the girl . . . the gods sent the boar . . . sent to punish me . .
.” The king coughed, bringing up blood. “Wrong, it was
wrong, I . . . only a girl . . . Varys, Littlefinger, even my
brother . . . worthless . . . no one to tell me no but you, Ned . .
. only you . . . ” He lifted his hand, the gesture pained and
feeble. “Paper and ink. There, on the table. Write what I
tell you.”
Ned smoothed the paper out across his knee and took up the
quill. “At your command, Your Grace.”
“This is the will and word of Robert of House Baratheon,
the First of his Name, King of the Andals and all the rest—put in
the damn titles, you know how it goes. I do hereby command Eddard
of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, to serve
as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my . . . upon my
death . . . to rule in my . . . in my stead, until my son Joffrey
does come of age . . . ”
“Robert . . . ” Joffrey is not your son, he wanted to say, but
the words would not come. The agony was written too plainly across
Robert’s face; he could not hurt him more. So Ned bent his
head and wrote, but where the king had said “my son
Joffrey,” he scrawled “my heir” instead. The
deceit made him feel soiled. The lies we tell for love, he thought.
May the gods forgive me. “What else would you have me
say?”
“Say . . . whatever you need to. Protect and defend, gods
old and new, you have the words. Write. I’ll sign it. You
give it to the council when I’m dead.”
“Robert,” Ned said in a voice thick with grief,
“you must not do this. Don’t die on me. The realm needs
you.”
Robert took his hand, fingers squeezing hard. “You are . . . such a bad liar, Ned Stark,” he said through his pain.
“The realm . . . the realm knows . . . what a wretched king
I’ve been. Bad as Aerys, the gods spare me.”
“No,” Ned told his dying friend, “not so bad
as Aerys, Your Grace. Not near so bad as Aerys.”
Robert managed a weak red smile. “At the least, they will
say . . . this last thing . . . this I did right. You won’t
fail me. You’ll rule now. You’ll hate it, worse than I
did . . . but you’ll do well. Are you done with the
scribbling?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Ned offered Robert the paper. The
king scrawled his signature blindly, leaving a smear of blood
across the letter. “The seal should be witnessed.”
“Serve the boar at my funeral feast,” Robert rasped.
“Apple in its mouth, skin seared crisp. Eat the bastard.
Don’t care if you choke on him. Promise me, Ned.”
“I promise.” Promise me, Ned, Lyanna’s voice
echoed.
“The girl,” the king said. “Daenerys. Let her
live. If you can, if it . . . not too late . . . talk to them . . . Varys, Littlefinger . . . don’t let them kill her. And help
my son, Ned. Make him be . . . better than me.” He winced.
“Gods have mercy.”
“They will, my friend,” Ned said. “They
will.”
The king closed his eyes and seemed to relax. “Killed by a
pig,” he muttered. “Ought to laugh, but it hurts too
much.”
Ned was not laughing. “Shall I call them back?”
Robert gave a weak nod. “As you will. Gods, why is it so
cold in here?”
The servants rushed back in and hurried to feed the fires. The
queen had gone; that was some small relief, at least. If she had
any sense, Cersei would take her children and fly before the break
of day, Ned thought. She had lingered too long already.
King Robert did not seem to miss her. He bid his brother Renly
and Grand Maester Pycelle to stand in witness as he pressed his
seal into the hot yellow wax that Ned had dripped upon his letter.
“Now give me something for the pain and let me
die.”
Hurriedly Grand Maester Pycelle mixed him another draught of the
milk of the poppy. This time the king drank deeply. His black beard
was beaded with thick white droplets when he threw the empty cup
aside. “Will I dream?”
Ned gave him his answer. “You will, my lord.”
“Good,” he said, smiling. “I will give Lyanna
your love, Ned. Take care of my children for me.”
The words twisted in Ned’s belly like a knife. For a
moment he was at a loss. He could not bring himself to lie. Then he
remembered the bastards: little Barra at her mother’s breast,
Mya in the Vale, Gendry at his forge, and all the others. “I
shall . . . guard your children as if they were my own,” he
said slowly.
Robert nodded and closed his eyes. Ned watched his old friend
sag softly into the pillows as the milk of the poppy washed the
pain from his face. Sleep took him.
Heavy chains jangled softly as Grand Maester Pycelle came up to
Ned. “I will do all in my power, my lord, but the wound has
mortified. It took them two days to get him back. By the time I saw
him, it was too late. I can lessen His Grace’s suffering, but
only the gods can heal him now.”
“How long?” Ned asked.
“By rights, he should be dead already. I have never seen a
man cling to life so fiercely.”
“My brother was always strong,” Lord Renly said.
“Not wise, perhaps, but strong.” In the sweltering heat
of the bedchamber, his brow was slick with sweat. He might have
been Robert’s ghost as he stood there, young and dark and
handsome. “He slew the boar. His entrails were sliding from
his belly, yet somehow he slew the boar.” His voice was full
of wonder.
“Robert was never a man to leave the battleground so long
as a foe remained standing,” Ned told him.
Outside the door, Ser Barristan Selmy still guarded the tower
stairs. “Maester Pycelle has given Robert the milk of the
poppy,” Ned told him. “See that no one disturbs his
rest without leave from me.”
“It shall be as you command, my lord.” Ser
Barristan seemed old beyond his years. “I have failed my
sacred trust.”
“Even the truest knight cannot protect a king against
himself,” Ned said. “Robert loved to hunt boar. I have
seen him take a thousand of them.” He would stand his ground
without flinching, his legs braced, the great spear in his hands,
and as often as not he would curse the boar as it charged, and wait
until the last possible second, until it was almost on him, before
he killed it with a single sure and savage thrust. “No one
could know this one would be his death.”
“You are kind to say so, Lord Eddard.”
“The king himself said as much. He blamed the
wine.”
The white-haired knight gave a weary nod. “His Grace was
reeling in his saddle by the time we flushed the boar from his
lair, yet he commanded us all to stand aside.”
“I wonder, Ser Barristan,” asked Varys, so quietly,
“who gave the king this wine?”
Ned had not heard the eunuch approach, but when he looked
around, there he stood. He wore a black velvet robe that brushed
the floor, and his face was freshly powdered.
“The wine was from the king’s own skin,” Ser
Barristan said.
“Only one skin? Hunting is such thirsty work.”
“I did not keep count. More than one, for a certainty. His
squire would fetch him a fresh skin whenever he required
it.”
“Such a dutiful boy,” said Varys, “to make
certain His Grace did not lack for refreshment.”
Ned had a bitter taste in his mouth. He recalled the two
fair-haired boys Robert had sent chasing after a breastplate
stretcher. The king had told everyone the tale that night at the
feast, laughing until he shook. “Which squire?”
“The elder,” said Ser Barristan.
“Lancel.”
“I know the lad well,” said Varys. “A stalwart
boy, Ser Kevan Lannister’s son, nephew to Lord Tywin and
cousin to the queen. I hope the dear sweet lad does not blame
himself. Children are so vulnerable in the innocence of their
youth, how well do I remember.”
Certainly Varys had once been young. Ned doubted that he had
ever been innocent. “You mention children. Robert had a
change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryen. Whatever
arrangements you made, I want unmade. At once.”
“Alas,” said Varys. “At once may be too late.
I fear those birds have flown. But I shall do what I can, my lord.
With your leave.” He bowed and vanished down the steps, his
soft-soled slippers whispering against the stone as he made his
descent.
Cayn and Tomard were helping Ned across the bridge when Lord
Renly emerged from Maegor’s Holdfast. “Lord
Eddard,” he called after Ned, “a moment, if you would
be so kind.”
Ned stopped. “As you wish.”
Renly walked to his side. “Send your men away.” They
met in the center of the bridge, the dry moat beneath them.
Moonlight silvered the cruel edges of the spikes that lined its
bed.
Ned gestured. Tomard and Cayn bowed their heads and backed away
respectfully. Lord Renly glanced warily at Ser Boros on the far end
of the span, at Ser Preston in the doorway behind them. “That
letter.” He leaned close. “Was it the regency? Has my
brother named you Protector?” He did not wait for a reply.
“My lord, I have thirty men in my personal guard, and other
friends beside, knights and lords. Give me an hour, and I can put a
hundred swords in your hand.”
“And what should I do with a hundred swords, my
lord?”
“Strike! Now, while the castle sleeps.” Renly looked
back at Ser Boros again and dropped his voice to an urgent whisper.
“We must get Joffrey away from his mother and take him in
hand. Protector or no, the man who holds the king holds the
kingdom. We should seize Myrcella and Tommen as well. Once we have
her children, Cersei will not dare oppose us. The council will
confirm you as Lord Protector and make Joffrey your
ward.”
Ned regarded him coldly. “Robert is not dead yet. The gods
may spare him. If not, I shall convene the council to hear his
final words and consider the matter of the succession, but I will
not dishonor his last hours on earth by shedding blood in his halls
and dragging frightened children from their beds.”
Lord Renly took a step back, taut as a bowstring. “Every
moment you delay gives Cersei another moment to prepare. By the
time Robert dies, it may be too late . . . for both of
us.”
“Then we should pray that Robert does not die.”
“Small chance of that,” said Renly.
“Sometimes the gods are merciful.”
“The Lannisters are not.” Lord Renly turned away and
went back across the moat, to the tower where his brother lay
dying.
By the time Ned returned to his chambers, he felt weary and
heartsick, yet there was no question of his going back to sleep,
not now. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die,
Cersei Lannister had told him in the godswood. He found himself
wondering if he had done the right thing by refusing Lord
Renly’s offer. He had no taste for these intrigues, and there
was no honor in threatening children, and yet . . . if Cersei
elected to fight rather than flee, he might well have need of
Renly’s hundred swords, and more besides.
“I want Littlefinger,” he told Cayn. “If
he’s not in his chambers, take as many men as you need and
search every winesink and whorehouse in King’s Landing until
you find him. Bring him to me before break of day.” Cayn
bowed and took his leave, and Ned turned to Tomard. “The Wind
Witch sails on the evening tide. Have you chosen the
escort?”
“Ten men, with Porther in command.”
“Twenty, and you will command,” Ned said. Porther
was a brave man, but headstrong. He wanted someone more solid and
sensible to keep watch over his daughters.
“As you wish, m’lord,” Tom said.
“Can’t say I’ll be sad to see the back of this
place. I miss the wife.”
“You will pass near Dragonstone when you turn north. I
need you to deliver a letter for me.”
Tom looked apprehensive. “To Dragonstone,
m’lord?” The island fortress of House Targaryen had a
sinister repute.
“Tell Captain Qos to hoist my banner as soon as he comes
in sight of the island. They may be wary of unexpected visitors. If
he is reluctant, offer him whatever it takes. I will give you a
letter to place into the hand of Lord Stannis Baratheon. No one
else. Not his steward, nor the captain of his guard, nor his lady
wife, but only Lord Stannis himself.”
“As you command, m’lord.”
When Tomard had left him, Lord Eddard Stark sat staring at the
flame of the candle that burned beside him on the table. For a
moment his grief overwhelmed him. He wanted nothing so much as to
seek out the godswood, to kneel before the heart tree and pray for
the life of Robert Baratheon, who had been more than a brother to
him. Men would whisper afterward that Eddard Stark had betrayed his
king’s friendship and disinherited his sons; he could only
hope that the gods would know better, and that Robert would learn
the truth of it in the land beyond the grave.
Ned took out the king’s last letter. A roll of crisp white
parchment sealed with golden wax, a few short words and a smear of
blood. How small the difference between victory and defeat, between
life and death.
He drew out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his quill in the
inkpot. To His Grace, Stannis of the House Baratheon, he wrote. By
the time you receive this letter, your brother Robert, our King
these past fifteen years, will be dead. He was savaged by a boar
whilst hunting in the kingswood . . .
The letters seemed to writhe and twist on the paper as his hand
trailed to a stop. Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime were not men to suffer
disgrace meekly; they would fight rather than flee. No doubt Lord
Stannis was wary, after the murder of Jon Arryn, but it was
imperative that he sail for King’s Landing at once with all
his power, before the Lannisters could march.
Ned chose each word with care. When he was done, he signed the
letter Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, and
Protector of the Realm, blotted the paper, folded it twice, and
melted the sealing wax over the candle flame.
His regency would be a short one, he reflected as the wax
softened. The new king would choose his own Hand. Ned would be free
to go home. The thought of Winterfell brought a wan smile to his
face. He wanted to hear Bran’s laughter once more, to go
hawking with Robb, to watch Rickon at play. He wanted to drift off
to a dreamless sleep in his own bed with his arms wrapped tight
around his lady, Catelyn.
Cayn returned as he was pressing the direwolf seal down into the
soft white wax. Desmond was with him, and between them
Littlefinger. Ned thanked his guards and sent them away.
Lord Petyr was clad in a blue velvet tunic with puffed sleeves,
his silvery cape patterned with mockingbirds. “I suppose
congratulations are in order,” he said as he seated
himself.
Ned scowled. “The king lies wounded and near to
death.”
“I know,” Littlefinger said. “I also know that
Robert has named you Protector of the Realm.”
Ned’s eyes flicked to the king’s letter on the table
beside him, its seal unbroken. “And how is it you know that,
my lord?”
“Varys hinted as much,” Littlefinger said,
“and you have just confirmed it.”
Ned’s mouth twisted in anger. “Damn Varys and his
little birds. Catelyn spoke truly, the man has some black art. I do
not trust him.”
“Excellent. You’re learning.” Littlefinger
leaned forward. “Yet I’ll wager you did not drag me
here in the black of night to discuss the eunuch.”
“No,” Ned admitted. “I know the secret Jon
Arryn was murdered to protect. Robert will leave no trueborn son
behind him. Joffrey and Tommen are Jaime Lannister’s
bastards, born of his incestuous union with the queen.”
Littlefinger lifted an eyebrow. “Shocking,” he said
in a tone that suggested he was not shocked at all. “The girl
as well? No doubt. So when the king dies . . . ”
“The throne by rights passes to Lord Stannis, the elder of
Robert’s two brothers.”
Lord Petyr stroked his pointed beard as he considered the
matter. “So it would seem. Unless . . . ”
“Unless, my lord? There is no seeming to this. Stannis is
the heir. Nothing can change that.”
“Stannis cannot take the throne without your help. If
you’re wise, you’ll make certain Joffrey
succeeds.”
Ned gave him a stony stare. “Have you no shred of
honor?”
“Oh, a shred, surely,” Littlefinger replied
negligently. “Hear me out. Stannis is no friend of yours, nor
of mine. Even his brothers can scarcely stomach him. The man is
iron, hard and unyielding. He’ll give us a new Hand and a new
council, for a certainty. No doubt he’ll thank you for
handing him the crown, but he won’t love you for it. And his
ascent will mean war. Stannis cannot rest easy on the throne until
Cersei and her bastards are dead. Do you think Lord Tywin will sit
idly while his daughter’s head is measured for a spike?
Casterly Rock will rise, and not alone. Robert found it in him to
pardon men who served King Aerys, so long as they did him fealty.
Stannis is less forgiving. He will not have forgotten the siege of
Storm’s End, and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dare not. Every
man who fought beneath the dragon banner or rose with Balon Greyjoy
will have good cause to fear. Seat Stannis on the Iron Throne and I
promise you, the realm will bleed.
“Now look at the other side of the coin. Joffrey is but
twelve, and Robert gave you the regency, my lord. You are the Hand
of the King and Protector of the Realm. The power is yours, Lord
Stark. All you need do is reach out and take it. Make your peace
with the Lannisters. Release the Imp. Wed Joffrey to your Sansa.
Wed your younger girl to Prince Tommen, and your heir to Myrcella. It will be four years
before Joffrey comes of age. By then he will look to you as a
second father, and if not, well . . . four years is a good long
while, my lord. Long enough to dispose of Lord Stannis. Then,
should Joffrey prove troublesome, we can reveal his little secret
and put Lord Renly on the throne.”
“We?” Ned repeated.
Littlefinger gave a shrug. “You’ll need someone to
share your burdens. I assure you, my price would be
modest.”
“Your price.” Ned’s voice was ice. “Lord
Baelish, what you suggest is treason.”
“Only if we lose.”
“You forget,” Ned told him. “You forget Jon
Arryn. You forget Jory Cassel. And you forget this.” He drew
the dagger and laid it on the table between them; a length of
dragonbone and Valyrian steel, as sharp as the difference between
right and wrong, between true and false, between life and death.
“They sent a man to cut my son’s throat, Lord
Baelish.”
Littlefinger sighed. “I fear I did forget, my lord. Pray
forgive me. For a moment I did not remember that I was talking to a
Stark.” His mouth quirked. “So it will be Stannis, and
war?”
“It is not a choice. Stannis is the heir.”
“Far be it from me to dispute the Lord Protector. What
would you have of me, then? Not my wisdom, for a
certainty.”
“I shall do my best to forget your . . . wisdom,”
Ned said with distaste. “I called you here to ask for the
help you promised Catelyn. This is a perilous hour for all of us.
Robert has named me Protector, true enough, but in the eyes of the
world, Joffrey is still his son and heir. The queen has a dozen
knights and a hundred men-at-arms who will do whatever she commands
. . . enough to overwhelm what remains of my own household guard.
And for all I know, her brother Jaime may be riding for
King’s Landing even as we speak, with a Lannister host at his
back.”
“And you without an army.” Littlefinger toyed with
the dagger on the table, turning it slowly with a finger.
“There is small love lost between Lord Renly and the
Lannisters. Bronze Yohn Royce, Ser Balon Swann, Ser Loras, Lady
Tanda, the Redwyne twins . . . each of them has a retinue of
knights and sworn swords here at court.”
“Renly has thirty men in his personal guard, the rest even
fewer. It is not enough, even if I could be certain that all of
them will choose to give me their allegiance. I must have the gold
cloaks. The City Watch is two thousand strong, sworn to defend the
castle, the city, and the king’s peace.”
“Ah, but when the queen proclaims one king and the Hand
another, whose peace do they protect?” Lord Petyr flicked at
the dagger with his finger, setting it spinning in place. Round and
round it went, wobbling as it turned. When at last it slowed to a
stop, the blade pointed at Littlefinger. “Why, there’s
your answer,” he said, smiling. “They follow the man
who pays them.” He leaned back and looked Ned full in the
face, his grey-green eyes bright with mockery. “You wear your
honor like a suit of armor, Stark. You think it keeps you safe, but
all it does is weigh you down and make it hard for you to move.
Look at you now. You know why you summoned me here. You know what
you want to ask me to do. You know it has to be done . . . but
it’s not honorable, so the words stick in your
throat.”
Ned’s neck was rigid with tension. For a moment he was so
angry that he did not trust himself to speak.
Littlefinger laughed. “I ought to make you say it, but
that would be cruel . . . so have no fear, my good lord. For the
sake of the love I bear for Catelyn, I will go to Janos Slynt this
very hour and make certain that the City Watch is yours. Six
thousand gold pieces should do it. A third for the Commander, a
third for the officers, a third for the men. We might be able to
buy them for half that much, but I prefer not to take
chances.” Smiling, he plucked up the dagger and offered it to
Ned, hilt first.