In a small training hall in King's Landing, the purple wildflowers in the corner bloomed as usual. In the center of the hall, a little dark-haired girl held a thin sword, her concentration entirely focused on her swordsmanship. Fine sweat trickled down her forehead and tickled her cheeks, but it did nothing to distract her.
Standing next to her was Syrio Forel, once the First Sword of Braavos. His eyes followed the girl's movements, correcting them when necessary.
"Pay attention to your footing, Lady Arya," he instructed.
"Hey-ha!" Arya exhaled as she practiced the Water Dance with undivided attention.
Despite the turmoil engulfing King's Landing and Westeros as a whole, none of it seemed to affect the small training hall. Arya was lost in her movements, unaware of the tall, dark-haired man standing by the wall, watching her intently.
Ned Stark allowed himself a brief smile. This... this is a peace Sansa could never bring, he thought. Not anymore. Sansa had been spending more time with Cersei and Joffrey, something Ned had initially encouraged. He had once been glad to see the union between the Starks and the Baratheons. But now... Joffrey's unknown parentage and vile temperament... Ned shook his head slightly.
The only recent news Ned found solace in was that Robert had taken up practicing martial arts more frequently since the fleet had been written off. Still, his body wastes away at an alarming rate, Ned considered grimly. Along with his weight, the population of King's Landing dwindles too. Rumors had begun spreading, claiming the Targaryens would burn the city upon their return. The poor in Flea Bottom still clung to their lives, but those with means had long since fled.
Ned turned and made his way back to the Red Keep. Passing through the garden, he was en route to the Tower of the Hand when he encountered Varys.
"My lord Hand," Varys greeted with a polite bow.
"My lord Varys," Ned responded curtly. The two exchanged brief formalities before Varys handed him a letter.
"The Targaryen prince has left Tyrosh," Varys revealed, "announcing his intention to travel to Slaver's Bay to buy Unsullied for his army."
Varys didn't elaborate on Viserys' intentions; they were already clear. Robert's head, Tywin's head, and the Iron Throne.
"What do you think of the Unsullied?" Ned asked, his voice quiet.
Varys lowered his head slightly, raising a barely visible eyebrow. "My lord, although I am an eunuch like the Unsullied, I must admit they are warriors bred solely for battle. Have you heard the tale of the 3,000 Unsullied who defended Qohor?"
Ned nodded, his expression thoughtful.
"The treasury of Viserys seems full," Varys continued. "Their equipment may be simple, but I believe he has the means to supply them adequately."
"How many can he buy?" Ned inquired.
"If the gold is there, my lord, I don't think 20,000 Unsullied would be a problem."
"20,000?" Ned's frown deepened as he processed the number.
During this time, Ned had also uncovered some critical information. Although Viserys was now the emperor, backed by the nine major city-states, his true control only extended to the Stepsstones and the Disputed Lands.
Yet even with just the so called "Hopeful Lands", he had more than enough resources to muster an army of 50,000 men—conservatively estimated at 60,000 to 70,000. With the full support of the other city-states, an army of 100,000 was within easy reach.
And now, with the conquest of the Dothraki, those numbers could swell by another 20,000 or 30,000. Add the Unsullied to this force, and Ned knew that no single one of the Seven Kingdoms could stand against an army approaching 200,000. Not to mention the seven growing dragons under Viserys' command.
Dorne and the Reach had long awaited Viserys' return to Westeros. For the lords who still harbored thoughts of resisting, two words best described their fate: waiting to die. The sense of hopelessness felt like watching oneself slowly sink into a swamp, unable to escape.
Robert, stubborn as ever, wanted to lead the fleet and "put up a fight." But like a man sinking deeper into the mire, his efforts seemed futile. I feel the same, Ned thought grimly. But as long as Robert believed in resistance, Ned wouldn't abandon him.
"This information must not be leaked," he warned Varys.
"Rest assured, my lord," Varys replied, his eyes glinting with some unreadable intent. "Before I came, His Grace said he would summon you."
"Where is the King now?"
"The Throne Hall."
Ned raised an eyebrow, puzzled. It was unusual for Robert to summon him to the Throne Hall. The act felt oddly formal, as though two childhood friends who had once played together now addressed each other by full names. What madness is Robert up to now? Ned wondered, but he resolved to go.
Without delay, he made his way to the Throne Hall. Several gold-cloaked guards stood at the entrance, but Ned paid them little mind, nodding in passing as he stepped inside. As he entered, he caught a faint scent of blood in the air. Am I imagining it? he thought, his senses alert.
At that moment, Ned noticed six royal guards in white cloaks standing on either side of the Iron Throne. In addition to these six, there were two others—one familiar face, and one not so well-known. The familiar one was Littlefinger, Catelyn's "good friend," whom Ned had come to see as one of the few people he could trust in King's Landing. Yet today, there was something unsettling in Littlefinger's eyes—pity and disappointment, emotions that made Ned uneasy.
The other person, who Ned didn't know well, was a dwarf, waist-high compared to the others: Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion stood beside Jaime, who glared at Ned with obvious resentment. Jaime held a square box in his hands, and when Ned saw it, his heart gave a nervous jolt.
Robert, he thought. The scent of blood seemed to be coming from that very box.
Ned quickly glanced at the Iron Throne—the twisted, rust-red monstrosity on which the king now sat. Robert looked terrible, his once-proud figure now sagging with loose skin from rapid weight loss. Yet, despite his haggard appearance, sitting on the Iron Throne almost made him resemble the strong, heroic leader of the rebellion once more.
Ned knelt on one knee to greet him.
"Ned, my good brother," Robert's voice was hoarse, and as the light from the skylight above fell on his face, his gaunt features were all the more ghastly. "Do you want to go back to Winterfell? To the North?"
Ned was taken aback. Return to Winterfell? He couldn't, and wouldn't, leave Robert now.
"No, Your Grace," Ned replied. "I will always stand with you."
"Then why," Robert's voice erupted into a thunderous roar, "did you let your woman meet with that dragonspawn in private!?"
His shout reverberated through the throne room, the tapestries of the Baratheon and Lannister sigils trembling slightly in the wake of his fury. But it wasn't just anger in Robert's voice—it was sadness, like the mournful wail of a beast wounded beyond repair.
"Ned, my good brother, tell me—why? Are you going to betray me too?"
Ned opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Littlefinger stepped forward, presenting a letter. As soon as Ned saw the handwriting, his heart sank—it was Catelyn's.
Before she had left for King's Landing, Catelyn had written to Ned about her conversation with Viserys, assuring him that the meeting was necessary and that she was returning soon. Her plan had been flawless—delivering the letter would explain her intentions, and her swift arrival would prove the Starks' loyalty beyond question. But there was one flaw she hadn't foreseen: she had entrusted the letter to Littlefinger, hoping he would deliver it to Ned.
Littlefinger, however, had already realized that the Baratheons were a sinking ship, and his eyes were set on Viserys' rising power. The letter had handed him the perfect opportunity. Rather than pass it on to Ned, he had sent men to intercept Catelyn while he delivered the letter straight to Robert, embellishing the contents to stir suspicion.
And now, a terrible misunderstanding had taken root.
Looking at the letter handed to him by Littlefinger, Ned felt a storm of confusion brewing within. 'What is going on? Why is Viserys in the North? And at the Wall? The White Walkers? Wildlings? The Long Night?' His mind raced as he tried to make sense of the chaos.
Just then, Jaime Lannister stepped forward, carrying the blood-stained wooden box. He approached Ned and slowly opened it. Inside was a face Ned knew all too well—Jory, his captain of the guard, the man who had led the wedding revels on the night he married Catelyn.
"Lannister! You killed him!" Ned roared, eyes bloodshot as he grabbed Jaime by the collar. But before he could strike, a voice from the Iron Throne stopped him cold.
"I told him to kill him," Robert's voice trembled, weak and filled with sorrow. "Do you remember the chains in the river, Ned? If it weren't for him, we might have saved half the fleet. Do you think I should have spared him?"
Ned felt as though he had been struck in the chest. When they found the iron chains, he had feared Jory's fate was sealed, but he had never imagined it would come to this—by Robert's hand. The realization hit him hard: Robert was breaking with him, completely.
"I heard your wife is here. You might as well take some time off," Robert added, his voice signaling that Ned's title as Hand of the King was about to be stripped.
Before Ned could respond, Tyrion Lannister, half as tall as the others in the room, approached him and whispered, "Lord Stark, Viserys wants His Grace's head... and my father's. As a Lannister, I doubt I'll escape either. For now, let me play the role of His Grace's... rear end."
There was a vulgar saying in Westeros: "The king dines, and the Hand takes the shit." Tyrion's twisted grin carried no mirth. He extended his hand for the badge of the Hand of the King.
Expressionless, Ned removed the badge and handed it to Tyrion without a word.
"Oh, by the way," Tyrion added, "Sansa's handmaiden mentioned she reached... what was it called?"
"Flowering, Your Grace," Tyrion prompted, turning to Robert.
"Ah yes, that. I think it's best to marry Sansa to Joffrey as soon as possible," Robert declared.
Ned felt an icy wave crash over him. This was not the same Robert who had come to Winterfell months ago, seeking an alliance between their houses. Back then, the match between Sansa and Joffrey had been an honor, but now… after seeing Joffrey's vile nature, Ned knew he wasn't a fit match for his daughter.
And now Viserys has probably told Robert that Catelyn approached him on Sansa's behalf, Ned realized. This isn't just about marriage anymore—it's about binding the two houses together in chains.
Ned's heart wavered, the scales tipping as he made his decision. "Your Grace, let Sansa return to the North. I will stay by your side and fight to the last."
"Hahaha!" Robert's laughter erupted like a madman's cackle, echoing through the Throne Hall. It was a wild, unhinged sound, filling the air like an invisible monster ready to tear everything apart.
"Ned, do you think Joffrey isn't worthy of your Sansa? Or do you think Joffrey isn't my son?"
Ned stood frozen, unable to answer. How did it come to this?
"If you think Joffrey isn't worthy, then what about me? What about your king?" Robert's eyes blazed with fury.
"Your Grace—"
Ned barely recognized the man before him. It was as if the Robert he had known, the man he had loved like a brother, was gone.
"I heard Viserys asked for Sansa as his concubine," Robert continued, his voice turning cold. "Well, I have Targaryen blood too, Ned. I'm a Valyrian. I can take a concubine too, can't I? Wasn't that why you put me on this throne in the first place? To be your king? To be just like them?"
Ned's breath caught in his throat. He stared at Robert, suddenly noticing streaks of white hair on his head—signs of age and stress he hadn't noticed before. The image of Robert before him began to blur, overlapping with a figure from the past.
The Mad King... Aerys, Ned realized, horror creeping into his heart.