The Kings of Winter watched him pass with eyes of ice, and the direwolves at their feet turned theirgreat stone heads and snarled. Last of all, he came to the tomb where his father slept, with Brandonand Lyanna beside him. “Promise me, Ned,” Lyanna’s statue whispered. She wore a garland of paleblue roses, and her eyes wept blood.
Eddard Stark jerked upright, his heart racing, the blankets tangled around him. The room was blackas 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 heopened the door, he found Tomard with an upraised fist, and Cayn with a taper in hand. Betweenthem 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 heavysilver 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. Themoon hung low over the walls, ripening toward full. On the ramparts, a guardsman in a gold cloakwalked his rounds.
The royal apartments were in Maegor’s Holdfast, a massive square fortress that nestled in the heartof the Red Keep behind walls twelve feet thick and a dry moat lined with iron spikes, a castle-withina-castle. Ser Boros Blount guarded the far end of the bridge, white steel armor ghostly in themoonlight. Within, Ned passed two other knights of the Kingsguard; Ser Preston Greenfield stood atthe bottom of the steps, and Ser Barristan Selmy waited at the door of the king’s bedchamber. Threemen in white cloaks, he thought, remembering, and a strange chill went through him. Ser Barristan’sface was as pale as his armor. Ned had only to look at him to know that something was dreadfullywrong. The royal steward opened the door. “Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King,” heannounced.
“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 redglare. The heat within was suffocating. Robert lay across the canopied bed. At the bedside hoveredGrand Maester Pycelle, while Lord Renly paced restlessly before the shuttered windows. Servantsmoved back and forth, feeding logs to the fire and boiling wine. Cersei Lannister sat on the edge ofthe bed beside her husband. Her hair was tousled, as if from sleep, but there was nothing sleepy in hereyes. They followed Ned as Tomard and Cayn helped him cross the room. He seemed to move veryslowly, as if he were still dreaming.
The king still wore his boots. Ned could see dried mud and blades of grass clinging to the leatherwhere 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 andblood 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 lookdown at Robert to know how bad it was. “What …?” he began, his throat clenched.
kdown 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 andthe Kingsguard?”
Renly’s mouth twitched. “My brother commanded us to stand aside and let him take the boaralone.”
Eddard Stark lifted the blanket.
They had done what they could to close him up, but it was nowhere near enough. The boar musthave 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 thesmell 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’scommand.”
“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 youunderstand, woman?”
Cersei gathered up her skirts and her dignity and led the way to the door. Lord Renly and the othersfollowed. Grand Maester Pycelle lingered, his hands shaking as he offered the king a cup of thickwhite 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 wasalmost 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 mattedblack hair fell across his eyes as he glared up at Ned. “Ought to do the same for you. Can’t leave aman to hunt in peace. Ser Robar found me. Gregor’s head. Ugly thought. Never told the Hound. LetCersei surprise him.” His laugh turned into a grunt as a spasm of pain hit him. “Gods have mercy,” hemuttered, swallowing his agony. “The girl. Daenerys. Only a child, you were right … that’s why, thegirl … 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 tellme 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, YourGrace.”
“This is the will and word of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of theAndals and all the rest—put in the damn titles, you know how it goes. I do hereby command Eddardof House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, to serve as Lord Regent and Protector of theRealm upon my … upon my death … to rule in my … in my stead, until my son Joffrey does come ofage …”
“Robert …” Joffrey is not your son, he wanted to say, but the words would not come. The agonywas written too plainly across Robert’s face; he could not hurt him more. So Ned bent his head andwrote, but where the king had said “my son Joffrey,” he scrawled “my heir” instead. The deceit madehim feel soiled. The lies we tell for love, he thought. May the gods forgive me. “What else would youhave 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 realmneeds you.”
Robert took his hand, fingers squeezing hard. “You are … such a bad liar, Ned Stark,” he saidthrough 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 youdone 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 thebastard. 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 tothem … Varys, Littlefinger … don’t let them kill her. And help my son, Ned. Make him be … betterthan 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, butit 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 smallrelief, 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 standin witness as he pressed his seal into the hot yellow wax that Ned had dripped upon his letter. “Nowgive me something for the pain and let me die.”
Hurriedly Grand Maester Pycelle mixed him another draught of the milk of the poppy. This timethe king drank deeply. His black beard was beaded with thick white droplets when he threw the emptycup 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 bringhimself 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,” hesaid slowly.
Robert nodded and closed his eyes. Ned watched his old friend sag softly into the pillows as themilk 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 thesweltering heat of the bedchamber, his brow was slick with sweat. He might have been Robert’s ghostas he stood there, young and dark and handsome. “He slew the boar. His entrails were sliding from hisbelly, 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 toldhim.
Outside the door, Ser Barristan Selmy still guarded the tower stairs. “Maester Pycelle has givenRobert the milk of the poppy,” Ned told him. “See that no one disturbs his rest without leave fromme.”
“It shall be as you command, my lord.” Ser Barristan seemed old beyond his years. “I have failedmy sacred trust.”
“Even the truest knight cannot protect a king against himself,” Ned said. “Robert loved to huntboar. I have seen him take a thousand of them.” He would stand his ground without flinching, his legsbraced, the great spear in his hands, and as often as not he would curse the boar as it charged, andwait until the last possible second, until it was almost on him, before he killed it with a single sure andsavage thrust. “No one could know this one would be his death.”
tboar. I have seen him take a thousand of them.” He would stand his ground without flinching, his legsbraced, the great spear in his hands, and as often as not he would curse the boar as it charged, andwait until the last possible second, until it was almost on him, before he killed it with a single sure andsavage 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 weflushed 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 ablack 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 skinwhenever he required it.”
“Such a dutiful boy,” said Varys, “to make certain His Grace did not lack for refreshment.”
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