Clash of Ambitions (Patreon)

I'm anxious to get back to Flying Swords, but I can't until I finish editing "Fathers." I am on the calendar with my editor for August, so NO MORE PROCRASTINATION. Seriously. But the need to write brings me back to fanfic. Things are starting to heat up in Westeros. I wonder if any of you can figure out what's motivating Cat given her POV isn't in here.

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Chapter Sixteen

Robb smiled when he found the courtyard where Myrcella was playing with Tommen. “There you are.”

“I found a new kitten,” Tommen announced grandly as he cuddled a small grey kitten. Sometimes Robb had trouble believing that Myrcella and Tommen were related. They were both good people, unlike the few glimpses he had gotten of the Crown Prince, but they were so different. Myrcella was rich with confidence. She didn't doubt her own strength. She was the perfect blend of Northern power and Southern grace. Robb wished his oldest sister would learn a little more from Myrcella . Their father had always reminded Sansa that life was not a story and that knights existed to kill a lord’s enemies, not to charm ladies or save princesses. But Robb could still see his mother's heavy hand in some of her dreamy observations.

No doubt she would be married to a Northern lord by now without their mother’s influence. But his mother had dug in her heels to an extent that Robb could not explain. She lacked the power to cancel Sansa’s wedding, but she threw every impediment she could in Sansa’s way.

That made Robb uncomfortable given how women were vulnerable during war. And war was coming. Sometimes he wished he didn’t know the family secrets. If he were ignorant, he could court Myrcella and smile at Sansa’s silliness and teach Arya to shoot a bow without enduring nightmares of Prince Joffrey taking the throne and ripping Myrcella away from him, or imagine Sansa’s face as she was raped or feel the desperation to teach Arya to handle the bow and sword well enough to defend herself from soldiers. It was a burden Robb didn’t want.

But this was his burden to carry as the Stark in the North. If war came, the Starks would survive. And he would enjoy what peace was left to him before it came. Like his father said, war was like winter. It was always coming, but Starks always survived. He smiled at Myrcella and Tommen.

Robb settled on a low stone bench that servants would often use when grinding small batches of corn by hand or dying fabrics. “I see that. What a beautiful kitten he is. Have you named him?”

“Sir Wolfy,” Tommen said.

Robb raised his eyebrows at Myrcella. A poorly disguised smile quirked at the edges of her lips. 

Tommen said, “Everyone else has wolves, so I should as well.”

“Well argued,” Robb said, trying hard to not laugh. It would not be proper to laugh at a prince. Not that Tommen would ever take his ire out on others, even if they laughed at him. Tommen was not the sort of child who would survive the intrigues of King's Landing. Robb had no idea how the king and queen had managed to create such a naïve and sweet boy considering that neither of them possessed either trait.

“I'm going to go introduce him to the wolves,” Tommen said as he cuddled the white kitten to his chest and ran toward the stables. Both the wolves and cats like to hunt the vermin attracted by the seed in the stable, although with the wolves Robb suspected their hunts were more play than any serious desire to eat rats or badgers.

Myrcella smiled as Tomman ran away, his narrow sword bouncing on his hip.

“He's changed so much,” she said.

“How so?” Robb brushed off a section of the wall next to him so that she would not dirty her skirts if she chose to sit on the wall.

She smiled and accepted his silent invitation. “In the Red Keep, he was always so quiet. It was as if he were disappearing into the shadows.” She gave a whisper of a sigh. “Perhaps frightened would be a more apt descriptor.”

“Water dancing has helped him find his confidence,” Robb said, diplomatically ignoring the implied insult toward the parental incompetence of the king or the cruelty of a psychopathic prince.

Myrcella gave him a very knowing look, and Robb shrugged. That was as close as he would come to admitting he knew exactly what she actually meant.

“Are you done with your tasks for the day, my lord?”

“Aye. When father left me in charge, I will admit that I did not understand how much it entailed. Father always insisted that Sansa and I know everything there is to know about running Winterfell, yet I still managed to underestimate how much parchment is actually required.” Robb sometimes fantasized about shooting the ravens who flew toward the castle just so he would have some respite from the demands of unreasonable lords. If it were not for his mother and Luwin sorting the messages and helping him keep organized, he would have been buried under the work.

Myrcella pursed her lips. “I understand that ruling well requires a significant effort.” After that, a silence descended. Robb wondered if she thought at all about her own father, who famously put little effort into ruling.

He sat next to the princess of the seven kingdoms and watched servants hang laundry. He never thought he would marry a princess. As a child, he'd actually been rather fond of Alys Karstock. But Myrcella had that lady’s strength of character while still retaining a sweetness that most northern ladies either lacked or concealed. 

It was possible they hid any softer emotions for fear that their weakness would be used against their husbands or sons. The North was not the Vale or the Reach where women were sheltered from the consequence of their husbands' failures. 

The sounds of Winterfell surrounded them.  The distant calls of groomsmen, the soft laughter of maids, the thumps of someone beating a rug and horses whinnying. If Robb had been sitting with someone else, he was sure the quiet would be awkward. With Myrcella, it felt comfortable. As the sun drooped in the sky and highlighted golden strands in her raven dark hair, he could forget duty and his family’s political machinations.

After all, he wasn’t good at them. The first time he had awkwardly mentioned his great love for his siblings as he attempted to fulfill his father's request, Myrcella had recognized his awkward political machinations within two minutes and then cheerfully followed his lead. She had given them the excuse they needed to bring Tommen north for fostering, and since then, she had shown she could almost read his thoughts as if he were a wild wolf and she a warg. It was far more comfortable than having to explain his conflicted feelings.

At least it was comfortable as long as she could not also read his thoughts and learn of his father's treason or his cousin's identity.

“And how did your day go, Princess?”

“Your sister is quite wroth, I'm afraid.”

“Would this be my elder or younger sister?” While they were as different as the dawn and the night, they both had a stubbornness and Stark force of personality that made them more alike than either would admit.

“Your elder. I don't think Arya gets wroth. She gets revenge.”

Robb grimaced. “I had noticed.” He had learned to avoid insulting her or check both under and in his bed before attempting to lie down.

Myrcella laughed. “I know northern men are a different breed, but I do wonder if there is any northern man who will be willing to risk your sister’s ire long enough to wed her.”

“Perhaps the Umbers. They are known for having more courage than common sense. Too bad there are no male Mormonts of an age. Arya would be happy on their island.”

“A lack of common sense might be an admirable trait in any man who seeks her hand,” Myrcella said, but she lacked the sharp edge of disapproval Sansa had any time she discussed Arya’s lack of manners or her terrible influence on Aubrey Redwyne. Aubrey had arrived in Winterfell with all the proper manners of a Reach girl, and now she was as like to be racing a horse across the field or hunting rabbits as practicing her embroidery. Sansa did not approve.

“And what is Sansa’s cause for distress?” Robb asked.

“Your mother has announced that she will not be allowed to start her wedding cloak this year.”

“But the Hornwoods have left. Surely a time for the wedding has been set.” Given their father’s concern with seeing Sansa to a good marriage with an honorable man, Robb had been surprised at the departure, but he did not attempt to speak with either Daryn or his mother. Petitions and preparations for winter demanded his full attention, and that matter had seemed settled enough to not need his oversight.

Myrcella’s expression remained innocent and calm, but something made Robb think she was using words to move him. “Lady Stark has said that a bride must embroider her own cloak to demonstrate that she has not only the requisite skills but also the tenacity required to be lady of her own keep. While Sansa possesses tenacity in excess when it comes to the needle, apparently she lacks the appropriate fabrics.”

“She lacks… fabrics?” Robb was quite certain he had misheard that.

Myrcella hummed. “Apparently with both Aubrey Redwyne and Tansalla Blackwood fostering here as well as my brother and myself, your mother has depleted the castle’s entire supply of fine fabrics. I heard Sansa and Jayne bemoaning the fact that Sansa would die of old age before suitable fabrics in appropriate quantities arrived. She will waste away from mourning her inability to marry the handsome, noble, brave, and winsome Daryn Hornwood.”

While that did sound inappropriately dramatic and entirely accurate for Sansa, Robb was bothered by the idea that they needed to wait for fabrics. He kept the books for Winterfell, and their coffers were full. His mother could send servants to White Harbor with a large enough purse to buy fabric for a dozen maiden cloaks.  “That sounds unfortunate,” Robb said slowly.

Myrcella hummed again.  Robb had learned that meant she would not comment on the political machinations or stupidity of others. At least not where she might be overheard.

If his father were here, Robb would ask Lord Stark to insist on finalizing the betrothal before another lady caught young Lord Hornwood’s eye. But to throw such impediments in the way–to insist that Sansa was not responsible enough to marry because she lacked the persistence to embroider fabric that was not even available.  This was unconscionable. 

Robb wondered whether their mother disliked the idea of Sansa marrying Daryn in particular or whether she still held out hope for a match in the South. It could be either. But Sansa was fifteen now, and Robb had heard many times at the dinner table how it could take a girl a good year to make a wedding cloak if she wanted to truly impress her husband with the quality of her stitches. 

She needed to start the cloak. Robb’s head started to throb.

Myrcella folded her hands in her lap and studied Robb. “What shall you do, my lord?” She sounded so sweet and innocent, but Robb now understood she had chosen this quiet corner to entertain her brother, knowing Robb would pass by and that they would have the privacy for such a delicate conversation. After all, his mother would be her good-mother, and no good-daughter wanted to poison that relationship before the marriage even happened.

Of course Robb intended to be part of a treason against his future good-father, but she could not know that. 

He could wait until his father returned for more supplies or to review Winterfell business and have him handle his mother's reluctance, but his father might not return within the year. And then Sansa would only begin her cloak once she turned sixteen. Worse Daryn Hornwood might develop an eye for another. Alys had paid attention to Robb often enough, but now that he had a betrothal, the Karstocks would see Hornwood as a good match, as would the Mormonts and Dustins. The latter two houses had far too many daughters to leave a prized lord unmarried for long.

Robb glanced at Myrcella as she watched him, her expression serene. “I must write to the Hornwoods to discuss the terms of betrothal and set the timeline. And the next time they visit, I shall have to ensure my mother does not act as the primary host.” Robb had believed she wished to help him since being the Stark of Winterfell had required so much of him. In fact, he relied on her good advice in any number of areas, but now he had to wonder if his mother’s goals and his own aligned. 

“You may find the matter trivial, but you must also secure fabric. It would be a dishonor for Sansa to stand under a cloak of coarse material or one made too hurriedly because she did not have the fabric for an appropriate time,” Myrcella added.

Robb smiled. She had not asked him to take one position or another, but as soon as he had stated his intentions, she ably assisted him.  He was grateful every day that when it was time for him to marry, he would stand under the godswood with this woman. He would marry her today, only announcing a date would lead to the royal court moving north and with Dayne and Jon in Essos, they could not take the risk. A royal visit would allow potential assassins into the heart of Winterfell.

“If necessary, I will make the purchases myself.” Robb grimaced. “I have no idea how to make such purchases.”

Myrcella’s expression had a hint of sly amusement now. “No doubt you could ask Sansa. I'm sure she has opinions.”

Sansa never lacked opinions, but on a topic such as fabric, she would torture Robb with the details. “I'm sure if I asked her, she would insist on taking a wagon down the Kings Road to White Harbor so she could examine every bolt of fabric that came from every ship from Essos until she had found perfection.”

“She would be mightily torn between her need to start her cloak quickly and the desire to begin with perfect materials,” Myrcella agreed.

“My mother would not allow her to travel,” Robb said. He could override his mother, but on the subject of the Stark daughters, he had little leverage. It would cause discomfort in the staff to be caught between the orders of Sansa’s mother and the orders of the temporary Stark of Winterfell. “I could send a servant… some seamstress,” Robb suggested.

“Such is women’s work, and those women take orders from your mother. If she wishes to delay this marriage or even obstruct it, you will open a door that invites invasion,” she warned. 

Robb was  at a loss. It was such a small conflict, but he had found his life as the temporary Lord of Winterfell consisted of such small dilemmas which constantly nibbled away at him until he was ready to lose his mind. Two farmers were in a terrible conflict because one man had planted a field but the other man missed reading the markers and had watered that same field. How much of the harvest could each farmer claim? What was the labor of the waterer worth? Two servants each blamed each other for the loss of an entire vat of preserves to a creeping gray fungus, each suggesting the other should be beaten for incompetence. Two lords sent complaints about small folk gone missing on the road, each one accusing the other of preying upon women and killing the men to hide witnesses. 

A million small decisions, none of them with easy answers, were like gnats buzzing in his ears until he almost wished that he were facing a boar with a solid spear in his hand rather than one more petition. Robb considered Myrcella. “Princess, have you given thought to traveling through the North?”

Her smile was the sun coming out from behind a cloud in the aftermath of a storm. She laughed. “Should I, like your father, go on a grand tour? Perhaps like him, I can take some craftsmen and offer to repair what I find broken.”

“I have no doubt that your beauty alone would be enough to improve any part of the North that you visit,” Robb said. For one moment, he was proud of how that sounded like something from one of the books Sansa, but then his face heated. He sounded like a fool.

Myrcella tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Perhaps I can take my beauty and my purse to White Harbor. I do believe that, as my mother’s daughter, I know quality fabric.”

“My lady, I would be eternally grateful if you would rescue me.”

She ducked her head and offered a crooked smile. “I would never turn down a request for succor, but there is the issue of security.”

“Security? Of course I shall send a full company of Northmen with you, in addition to the Royal guards, as many as the commander finds appropriate.” Robb found issues of defense and weaponry far less daunting than those of lace and wool.

“It is what the commander finds appropriate that concerns me,” Myrcella said. “Ser Bywater has certain requirements regarding security. Have you noticed that I always invite Tommen when we ride?”

“I understand you are his only family here. And he will be my good-brother. He is always welcome on our rides,” Robb hurried to reassure her. He loved spending time with Tommen and it would be inappropriate for him to spend too much time with Myrcella alone, even if the guards followed.

“My lord, you misunderstand. Tommen would happily stay here with his cats or with Greyjoy, whose company enjoys. I am not sure whether Greyjoy was always a quiet boy or whether it was losing so much of his family in the war that has turned him such, but Tommen likes having a friend who does not overpower him with speech.”

“Like Arya,” Robb guessed.

“Like Arya and Aubrey and even Sansa and Jayne and Tansalla. They are all somewhat loud.”

“To call them loud is to suggest that winter is chilly,” Robb said. “They are loud like a thundering herd of elk. They are loud like the wolves when they all howl at some imaginary enemy. They are loud like winter winds howling through the trees. Does that capture what you would say of the girls of Winterfell?”

She hid her mouth and a small giggle before saying, “I would never say something so uncouth about my future good sisters or the fosters of my future house.”

“No, you would never be uncouth, my princess,” Robb agreed with a laugh. “However, I fail to see how our rides and the noise generated by excited girls and the issue of Sansa’s cloak are related.”

“Commander Bywater has ordered us to stay together anytime we are outside the walls of Winterfell. I did not tell you because I did not wish for you to feel it necessary to advocate for my independence. I understand that the guard dislikes splitting their attention between Tommen and myself.” She nodded towards the wall where even now a royal guard stood, not watching the hills as the Winterfell guards were, but with his back to those potential dangers so that he could watch Myrcella. 

Robb knew there were guards behind them as well, royal guards specifically chosen because they would die for the princess if needed. These men were surrounded by soldiers who held a different loyalty. Knowing that the Starks planned to stand against the Baratheons and any other claimants to the Iron Throne, he was painfully aware of the difficult position these guards were in. But despite being outnumbered by Starks, despite being far from families, despite being housed in an unfamiliar setting, they were unflaggingly loyal to Tommen and Myrcella.

“I would not ask you to do that which puts you or your guard in a difficult position.”

“But I wish to go, and if I am to be Lady Stark, I should know the major cities of the land I will help you rule.”

“Then why bring up Ser Bywater’s concerns? Do you fear he would refuse to allow you to travel to White Harbor or do you suggest that Tommen should attend you on your voyage?”

Myrcella studied the far wall and the guards standing upon it. “Tommen has seen the work you must do to keep Winterfell running, and perhaps he should see how other lords handle their land. He is soon to be nine, and I know he acts young. Father had no time for him, and mother would reward him with attention only when he was sick or needy. She enjoyed his company when he cuddled with her, but she quite disliked any time he emulated our father. Tommen worked hard to keep the attention of the only parent he had.” She took a breath. “He should explore. He should be brave.”

“Second sons often must be far braver than first,” Robb said. She gave him a questioning look.  “I have my path charted,” he explained. “There is no mystery of what course my life will follow, but I often think that Bran and Rickon have the more difficult waters to navigate. What shall they be? Where shall they live? What shall they do? Sometimes the second and third sons have gone to the wall. Many Starks have been commanders there, but I cannot think that I would ever be happy knowing that one of my little brothers lived in such a place without his family. But there is no set path.”

“I've always assumed that one of them would become lord of Whale Song. Your father hopes to create a great trade in whaling. Surely that would require a great settlement to support it.”

“Aye, but that would be one settlement. I have two brothers.”

“You have minded your lessons. You are quite proficient in counting to two,” Myrcella teased.

“Indeed. I can even reach five on good days,” he said in a solemn tone. “But I see your concerns. I can speak with Ser Bywater about allowing Tommen to visit White Harbor and learn how they handle trade. I'm sure Lord Wylis would be happy to give you and Prince Tommen a few lessons as well as a tour that could include many cloth merchants.”

“Thank you,” Myrcella said, her tone unexpectedly serious.

“You are assisting me in circumventing my mother’s schemes.”

“But you understand the difficult path Tommen is on and you are willing to help him.”

Robb rested his hand on the bench right next to Myrcella’s leg. “He will be my good-brother. Family. For a Stark, there is nothing more important than family and nothing we will not do to help them.”

She touched the back of Robb’s hand, and a shiver travelled up his spine.  “You are a good man.”

Robb hoped she believed that after the truth was revealed.  “I shall speak with Ser Bywater before evening supper.”

“Just make sure he does not lock us away like Targaryen maidens locked in a tower.”

Robb lifted one strand of her black hair. “You are no Targaryen, my princess, but I shall make sure he understands that both you and Tommen have tasks to complete.”

“You say I am no Targaryen, yet my father's grandmother carried that very name, as much as he refuses to speak it. And Bywater would rather lock us up like Baelor’s maidens than risk one of us getting a scraped knee. Only the Stark name keeps him from imprisoning us in the castle.  Please make sure he knows that he would earn your displeasure if he attempts it.”

“I shall,” Robb promised. Then he sighed. “I should speak with Mother and tell Sansa that she should plan her cloak’s design because you will return with the fabric once Tommen has had a chance to learn of trade and explore White Harbor. 

Myrcella smiled at him brightly. “My lord makes wise decisions.”

“Your lord would rather hide from his mother like an untutored child,” Robb countered. “Your lord would rather face a charging bear, a rutting elk, an aggravated boar.  However, Starks are not cowards, and I will not hide from her.”

Myrcella’s smile turned devious. “I believe I have the easier task.” She strode across the courtyard, and the two guards in the shadows of the old tower followed a second later. 

Facing his mother was far more challenging. It was the strength of knowing that he would disappoint Myrcella failed that gave him power. Besides, the Dustin heir was an honorable man who truly cared for Sansa. If the Dustins were to grow so offended that they withdrew the betrothal, Sansa would pay for their mothers obduracy. Robb did not want to see his sister lose a good husband just because his lady mother believed there was a better one waiting. 

Maybe there were better men in the south. Maybe if Sansa took two years to wander the southern kingdoms meeting all the lords’ heirs she would find someone that she loved.  But Robb doubted it.  His mother was looking toward men with more wealth or lands, but now that Robb had Myrcella here and understood the strength that came from having a partnership with someone who you cared for and who cared for you, he would move the world to give Sansa the same.  Luckily, he only had to move his mother. And he would.

He set out for the lady’s solar. He was going to challenge the dragon in her own nest.

Chapter Seventeen

“Ned!” Robert shouted when Ned walked into the small council room next to Lord Royce. Ned hoped that meant that he was not to be arrested.

“Your grace,” Ned answered.  Robert stood and came around the table, catching Ned’s arms before pulling him in for a hug.  Tywin Lannister sat at the table looking as if he had just found a worm in his meat and the kingsguard all tensed, but Ned hugged his friend back.  Ned had more complex feelings toward Robert in this lifetime, but part of him would always love his friend.

After a few powerful back slaps, Robert stepped away. “See, you vipers. You said he was plotting against me, but here he is. My friend. And without any guard because he trusts me.”  Robert’s glare was particularly vicious when he looked at Tywin.  The man didn’t even twitch under the king’s ire. Ned wondered if he had claimed a seat in the council or if he used the loans he had given the crown to demand a seat where he was not entitled to one.

“I thought to come and speak for any decisions that would cause the realm such disquiet,” Ned said.

Robert snorted. “Disquiet.” He returned to his chair and picked up his ale.  “Come. Sit. Explain to these cunts why they’re idiots.”

“I would not describe them thus,” Ned said. Aggravating Tywin was a dangerous game–one Ned had no interest in playing when he was alone in the city. He noted that Stannis was missing, as was Renly. Perhaps Cersei’s secrets had reached their ears. But the queen was not here and Robert was speaking of Ned’s supposed sins, not hers.

“I would,” Robert said with a laugh.  “You cunts–give him your arguments and let him answer.” Robert turned to Ned. “They would have me condemn you without letting you speak.  They wanted me to issue a huge fine. Forty thousand dragons.”

Ned paled. That would have crippled the North.  “We could not pay such a fine. We would have to borrow from the Iron Bank and the interest would drain our coffers.” He chose to remain standing and to keep his guard up. He had to navigate these treacherous waters carefully because Ned was plotting against his king for the second time in his life.

“Told you,” Robert said maliciously to Tywin.

Tywin’s mouth tightened, but he did not protest.

“Perhaps I can lay out the accusations,” Lord Manderly suggested.  “We can address them one at a time.” Wyman sounded affable, but then he always did, even when he was ordering the death of a murderer or plotting to kill Freys in another lifetime. Ned knew better than to underestimate the lord, and he trusted Wyman was on his side. 

“Go on then,” Robert said more agreeably.  It was clear that he liked Wyman. Given how much Robert liked to spend coin and how Wyman liked to save, that was a surprise.

Wyman cleared his throat and unrolled a parchment. “I’ve written them down as they were mentioned.  First, that Lord Stark has hidden a large population and built a northern city while falsifying the royal census.”

“The royal census has not been done for twenty years, and it was done properly,” Ned said.  “The people who live in Whale Song were north of the wall then, and they were properly omitted from the count.”

“They’re wildlings!?” Pycelle gasped. His chains clanged as he physically recoiled.  “Savages? Cannibals? South of the wall where they can ride farther into the kingdom unfettered?” His horror was etched into his face.

Ned knew this decision would be unpopular. In another generation, it might even be disastrous as the grandchildren of Free Folk rebelled against Robb’s children. But it was the best solution for the coming war.  “Umber and Bolton negotiated only with those Free Folk who had wives and children.  Families have moved south of the wall because I have work and land for them.  I could not set up whaling without that population, and I needed the whales for the meat they provide my people and those at the wall. The brothers in black have gone hungry too often. I will not allow it on my watch.”

“How many people are we talking about?” Robert asked.  Ned would have happily lied, but he didn’t know how much Yohn Royce had seen in Whale Song and Jorah’s wife certainly would have seen far too much. He was grateful that his people had kept her and Jorah away from the giants. That would have been a more difficult conversation.

“Between fifty and sixty thousand are at Whale Song, another thousand at Tail End and two thousand or so scattered in the lands of Umber and Bolton.  Other lords may have taken a few families, but those are the main populations.”  While Whale Song was ten percent of King’s Landing, that population made it larger than White Harbor and close to Gulltown.

“How do you have work for so many?” Wyman asked.

“Many Free Folk find their own employment in the mountains, hunting and trapping. However, the real employment for most is whaling. When a whale is brought in, many hands must render the fats, capture the oils, dry or salt the meat, preserve the baleen, clean the bones, and haul away the corrupt parts before the smell seeps into the city.  It takes hundreds, maybe thousands.”

Wyman looked stunned, but he cleared his throat and looked down at his parchment again. “This leads to the second accusation, that Lord Stark has avoided paying the proper taxes to the crown. This is the most serious of the given charges. I must ask, my Lord, how you are paying these workers?” Wyman sounded apologetic for even asking.

“I am not,” Ned answered.

“What?” Robert demanded, but then he laughed. “You get men to work for free? I should make you my Master of Coin. We’d pay off the debts in a year!”

“Free Folk have a different culture, your grace. They have no interest in coin.  They take payment by claiming a portion of the meat, fats or oils harvested from the animal.  One woman might make preserved food with the rendered fat, dried meat, berries and grain for the brothers on the wall.  She would keep a portion and ask for no coin. Then she could trade her rations for woven cloth or grains or furniture or keep it and feed her family.”

“It’s true,” Lord Royce said.  “I saw their houses. They had painted signs above their door with images of what they make and can trade away.  They would then put up smaller signs near the path if they needed some good. The valley Whale Song sits in is long, and people would walk paths along the two sides with baskets of wares looking to trade.  It is an inefficient system, but Lord Stark reports that they prefer it to coin, which they place no value on.”

“So, no coin is exchanged at all?” Wyman asked. “Have you no thought for profit from such a large city?”

Ned considered his answer.  “Right now, all excess goes to the Wall or to building in Whale Song. Eventually I hope to have oil or whalebone I can export. Ibbenese are teaching us uses for baleen and oil, but so far my people have ruined far more than they have correctly rendered. It is expected when learning a new skill, especially with a product that will rot if not prepared correctly.” That was a gross exaggeration, but one that Ned trusted to stand up to scrutiny. The Ibbenese were excellent teachers and the Free Folk disinclined to waste even a thumb of food and that had made them quick learners. But these nobles would be inclined to believe the worst of both groups.

“So we may see taxes eventually, but I see no evidence that Ned has done anything wrong,” Wyman said happily.

“But… your grace… the wildlings….” Pycelle’s distress seemed extreme.

“It’s Ned’s domain. He can do as he likes,” Robert said, and while Pycelle turned red, he did close his mouth.

“To the next accusation,” Wyman said. “It is charged that Lord Stark is preparing an army and plans to rebel against the throne.”

Robert snorted his derision.

“Is this not the most serious charge rather than the suggestion I kept taxes?” Ned asked. “Should I not have addressed this first?”

“Given only Lannister believes it, no.” Robert glared at Tywin.

“He has trained most of his bannermen’s people and now we know he has tens of thousands of men available to march. The concern is not without basis.”

“And I am training an army,” Ned said. Robert spat out the ale he had been drinking.  “The Free Folk wanted to come south because something is hunting them–an army or enemy powerful enough to wipe out entire villages. They were willing to abandon their homes and their laws in order to find safety south of the wall. I fear I may need an army and I may soon call on the other kingdoms to raise their banners for me.”

All humor vanished. Robert put his ale down and Tywin leaned forward.  Pycelle looked to Tywin as if trying to decide how he should react and Wyman lost most of the color from his face.

“What enemy?” Robert asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“I know not,” Ned said.  “It left no survivors to tell tales, eliminating entire villages in a night. The Free Folk are afraid. They would not have left their homes were they not, and they arm themselves, down to children so young that I would fear to allow them to touch a sharp blade.  They live in Whale Song only because there is food and fortifications against the enemy to the north.”

Lord Royce spoke. “Again, I can confirm. When I saw the city, they had watch towers north of the valley, set high on the mountain sides. They had no fortifications against the south.”

“Or the east,” Ned said.  He didn’t tell them that the giants lived at the far end of the valley. They were gentle creatures, huge and furred and much more interested in combing through each other’s fur than fighting, but when riled, they were brutal killers.  “The city is not what you would think of as a city. It is far more spread out, along the length of a valley it takes a full day to ride with farmland between the two strips of houses and workshops. But we have no fortifications to the east. The free folk only fear the enemy to the North.”  

“You must know what sort of enemy you face,” Robert said.

Ned shook his head. “I have no idea, but my ancestors felt there was something so dangerous that they built the wall.  It could be some kingdom to the west has sailed to the westernmost part of my lands, the Lands of Always Winter.”

Robert pounded his fist on the table. “We’ll crush them.”

“Aye, we will, but I would have us choose our own battlefields and make use of the wall my ancestors built, especially as I do not know what faces us. It might be an army or men or some great beasts that have overpopulated their native lands and now wander south–”

“What beasts could threaten whole villages?”

“Dragons,” Ned said.  Robert jerked, but Ned continued. “They are beasts of fire, so I do not believe the north is home to such, but there may be some other fantastical creature.  I know mammoths are real, and some equally large predator may be feasting on those creatures and the Free Folk both.  It could even be the Others raised up from legend for all I know, but I do my best to make sure the North will hold, as is my responsibility as Warden of the North.”

“You have been preparing armies for years, yet you have never brought this concern to the crown,” Tywin said in a suspicious tone.

“I started training because Benjen hoped to limit the cost of running Castle Lyanna. The crannogmen would not harvest the blood poison powders unless I promised protection. Four generations of Starks saved to renovate Moat Cailin, but Lord Howland said that the Moat best protects the rest of the North, not his lands. He asked for a southern castle with a standing army to prevent a host from invading his swamps and damaging the land.  He believes in his own people’s ability to kill invaders seeking to steal the secrets of his land, but not in his ability to prevent the land from being damaged in such a conflict.  So Benjen must maintain soldiers at the castle, and training a rotation of soldiers was the most economical way to meet that obligation.”

Wyman chuckled. “He took a fiscal obligation and turned it into a boon.  Benjen is a wise man.”

Ned smiled at him. “He is. And as for why I have not brought this to the crown–so far there are only rumors. If you sent armies north right now, you would only eat our supplies and your own.  There is no one to fight, not yet.  If you want to send help, have stonemasons sail north. They can help repair the wall and prepare Whale Song and Last Hearth, which are the northernmost keeps of all my people.

Robert turned to Wyman. “How many stonemasons can we afford to employ?”

Wyman blew out a breath. “I am unsure, my grace.  Ten or twenty, mayhaps, but they would require guards and assistants, so likely fewer.”

“They are skilled workers, some of the most expensive to employ,” Ned agreed when Robert made a face. “However, I can provide assistants and even have a few apprentices working with them.  I will also provide the guards and provisions. My people will be in Whale Song for another month before they travel to the wall. They will begin at the western forts and work their way east, repairing and reinforcing the wall as they travel.  They will go south, reinforcing Umber land before they will end on Bolton land where they will complete the new Bolton dock at Weeping where we hope to trade whale bone, lumber, and other goods that are too heavy for transport to White Harbor.  I will send a raven telling my people to expect your masons.”

Ned trusted them to hide the giants well.  They could haul the rough stone and timber to the various sites at night before the masons and builders came in to fit it to the castles.

“Coordinate with Wyman. We’ll send who we can,” Robert said.

Ned nodded. He’d send the raven today.  “I need to return north as soon as possible.  Can you ask at the harbor for a ship headed to White Harbor or Whale Song?”

“Aye,” Wyman said. “I’ll see it done.”

“I have another concern,” Tywin said. “You see danger coming from the north, yet you have the prince and princess at Winterfall.”

“Winterfall is twenty days from the Wall for a fast rider moving fast during clear weather. I would expect an army to take at least two months to move the same distance.”  That was not accurate given the dead didn’t sleep or tire, but they also shambled.  It had taken over a month for them to cross the distance last time, and this time the North was more prepared.  “At the first sign of trouble, our scouts will send ravens and we will evacuate the women and children.”

“Ned’ll keep ‘em safe,” Robert said in a tone that brooked no argument. “How are the children?”

Ned smiled. “Myrcella is a gracious young woman. She has taken up the bow and often rides with the children. My maester reports she has a deft tongue for languages and a sharp mind for figures. And Tommen has taken a liking to Bravosi water dancing. The last messenger who arrived brought word from my lady wife that he was becoming a talented swordsman.”

Robert roared with laughter. “That’s my boy. I knew if he got away from his poisonous mother he would grow a cock and turn into a real man.”

Tywin’s expression was granite.

“He came to Winterfell a boy, your grace.  Every boy is soft. Even you were.”

“Ha! Never!” Robert laughed, but it was clear he understood what Ned meant.  “I hear you have more wards now.”

“Aye,” Ned agreed, “a girl from the Reach who is too large and rough for a southron husband, a nephew of House Wode who is not yet ten name days, the youngest Greyjoy boy who is not six namedays, and a Riverlands girl who lost her mother. Most recently we have inherited two Riverland boys. They had hoped to squire, but the North has no knights.”

“You’re running a nursery and preparing for a war.” Robert seemed amused. Ned wondered if he understood it was the presence of the prince and princess that was attracting other children to Winterfell. The Riverlands boys certainly would not want to settle in the north, but if they could establish a friendship with the royal prince, their families would consider their fostering a success. Cat had tried to get her sister to send little Robin to foster at Winterfell for that very reason, but she had not succeeded. She would have more luck writing to Jon Arryn, but she had not wanted to give her sister’s husband cause to take the child when Lysa was not ready to let him go. The boy must be near ten namedays by now, old enough to be interested in more than clinging to a mother. Ned was just glad Jon Arryn had survived longer in this world, and he hoped that meant Robin had a better life.

“My lady wife is well acquainted with raising children,” Ned said. “I have little to do with it. But there are plans to evacuate all the children if the danger appears at the wall. They may all be grown with children of their own before the enemy appears.”

“We should march north and drive them from our shores,” Robert said.

“Mayhaps we can after the winter, your grace.  Signs are that this will be the coldest and longest winter in many generations, so we dare not march north now, not when we do not know how much of our food supplies we will use to feed the small folk.  In hard winters, our old will often walk into the wilderness to die rather than eat food that could be used to save babes. I will not take even a thumb of food from any of my bannermen until they get a spring harvest in their larder.”

Robert looked unhappy, but he didn’t argue.  Wyman looked relieved at that. No doubt the crown purse was still suffering under too much debt and calling the banners was a cost they could ill-afford. Ned would not be able to pay for the preparations he was making if it were not for the fact that Free Folk bartered and considered strengthening the defenses against the Night King a communal obligation.

“There is only one other matter,” Varys said with a twittering laugh that made Ned irrationally angry. In this life, Varys had done nothing to him, but Ned still disliked him. Worse, he considered the man the most dangerous threat at the table now that Littlefinger had been sidelined.  “We have received word that Arthur Dayne is in Essos.”  He studied Ned from under his eyelashes as if he were a maiden trying to woo him. 

“What is the concern? He is not in Westeros,” Ned said, feigning a disinterest he did not feel. This secret had the power to send him to the executioner.

“You killed him,” Robert said.  His confusion was quickly becoming anger. “You told me that.”

“Nay,” Ned said, arranging his expression to show confusion. “I said I had bested him. Despite standing guard at the tower, I found a way through the rocks, which allowed me to escape his notice. My concern was for finding Lyanna, not starting a fight I could not hope to win.”

“You left him at your back?” Robert demanded, pounding his fists against the table.

“You thought I could fight the Sword of Morning and survive?” Ned crafted his expression with great care. This is where he either bluffed his way to freedom or lost his life.

Robert’s mouth opened, but he said nothing. Varys’ gaze darted from one to the other.  “I thought he had retreated to Dorne to guard Lyanna because he had suffered some serious injury,” Robert said.

“You thought I attacked a man too wounded to defend himself?” Ned asked.

Robert winced. “I thought that was why you avoided discussing the matter.”

Ned blinked, feigning horror and shock.  “Your grace,” Ned said slowly, “I avoided discussing that day because I lost my sister.”

Robert had the decency to blush, but then the anger leeched back in. “The Sword of Morning is still out there. How could you not tell me?” he shouted.

“Arthur Dayne was not one I gave any thought to. The Targaryens were dead, and he was one more fallen servant of a fallen regime. I didn’t think about Hightower or Whent or any of the guards who fled to Essos.”

“It’s not the same. Dayne is the Sword of Morning.”

“Your grace,” Ned said slowly, “he is not one I spend my time thinking on. I have duties in the North, and that is where I keep my attention.”

Robert stared at him for long minutes.  “You should have told me,” he said darkly. Ned knew him well enough to see the fury bubbling under his skin.

He bowed his head. “I apologize, your grace.  When you did not hunt down Whent and Hightower, I gave it no more thought. You have my apology and my regret. We have been friends for too long for me to disappoint you so significantly.” The words made Ned’s stomach sour, but lies were small sins compared to the manipulations common in the capital. 

Only silence answered for long minutes, and then Robert sighed. “Don’t talk like that. You look like you’re about to fall to your knees,” Robert groused, which meant his anger had passed.

Ned looked up.  “I am sorry. If I had known….” He let his words trail off.

Robert waved a hand at him, dismissing the whole topic.  “Now, is there anyone else who wants to cast aspersions on my oldest friend?” His tone made it clear that the next person who spoke would bring down the king’s fury on his head. The few members of the small council present had the good sense to remain silent, and Robert gave a satisfied nod.  “Now, what are we doing about Liony Mormont? She spoke out against her liege lord, spreading lies. And lying to the king is treason.”

Tywin Lannister sat a little taller. “She is little more than a child, your grace. She can be forgiven for misunderstanding a situation. It’s not as if she was educated in finances or the duties of a Warden.”

“Then Jorah Mormont is to blame for not controlling his bitch of a wife,” Robert said. “I’ll not have my foster brother troubled with such a treasonous bannerman.  There must be punishment,” Robert declared.

“Exile,” Ned said before Robert could get too bloodthirsty.  “He can make a new life for himself in Essos. Maege Mormont is a good woman. She can hold Bear Island.”

“If he is to be exiled, House Lannister would reclaim Liony rather than have her exposed to the danger and immorality of Essos,” Tywin said.

Robert looked bored at the idea of such bloodless punishment.  “Whichever you want. I don’t care.” He upended his cup, gulping the ale before banging it back down on the table. “Come on, Ned.  I want to show you my new horse.  I’ll have my stewards prepare a hunt for us, and we can pretend we’re twenty and have all the lasses watching us.”

“The lasses never watched me, your grace,” Ned said.

Robert came around the table and slung his arm over Ned’s shoulders. “I know I got most of the attention, but plenty of girls like the shy, quiet ones.  I bet we could find you a woman, still.”

“I am true to my vows, your grace.”

“Always with duty,” Robert said in a disgusted voice. “Now that you’re here, we’re going to have some fun, at least drinking and hunting if you refuse to bed the prettiest whores in Westeros.  I’ll teach you there is more to life than duty.” He pulled Ned toward the door, and Ned allowed him.  Ned had thought the existence of Arthur Dayne would destroy any trust between them, but Robert was so deep in his cups, neither logic nor suspicion could take root. That should be a relief, but all Ned could feel as Robert pulled him out of the room was guilt.

Bone-deep guilt.

Chapter Eighteen

Ned slipped away from the Red Keep to find a certain blacksmith. Tobho Mott had his shop in the same place, but Gendry was no longer an apprentice. He was a man grown, wider of shoulder than the half-starved exile who Daenerys had named the new lord of Storm’s End. 

Ned offered both a place of honor in the North and told Tobho that he had a Valerian steel sword he would like reworked into two swords, but that he would not bring it south. 

The blacksmith’s gaze was too sharp. Just like in the last life, the man was too wily to miss the signs of impending war. Likely everyone in King’s Landing was uncomfortable with Tywin Lannister settling into the Red Keep after avoiding the city for almost two decades. The blacksmith had likely heard even more rumors than Ned had. As Olenna Tyrell had once said, rumors were more common than rats in King’s Landing. Ned suspected Varys. He had the unpleasant suspicion that Rhaegar’s kingsguard were working with the man, and he had few options to protect Jon from their expectations.

Tobho agreed to go North for the promise of a solid built stone house, land, a forge and a yearly salary.  Ned asked only that he bring Gendry, and they wrote the agreement. Ned sealed it with his signet before leaving.  Hopefully those were two more pieces that would not get chewed up by the war.

Still, every time Ned passed a child or saw a shopkeeper with his wares, he was painfully aware that all these people would be the true victims of any war. Even if Arthur could keep Daenerys from going down the path of madness and fire, war would starve them, destroy their homes and breed crime and rats and disease.

These would be the true victims, and Ned could hardly look at any of them.  How many had survived the last war? How many had survived the burning of King’s Landing?  A mad Targaryen was a terrible thing and Daenerys carried the seed of madness. Most warriors did. War taught men the true nature of their worst self–he had seen honest men loot and kind men rape. Many refused to speak on what they had done in war because of it, but a dragon magnified those seeds of cruelty.

Being in this cursed city brought back nightmares of his old life, but Ned could not arrange his own travel home without Robert’s permission. They had grown up together and had fought for their lives shoulder to shoulder when King Aerys had called for their heads, but now Ned had no freedom unless he was given it by Robert, and Robert refused permission until Ned had fun. Fun. The irresponsibility of wasting time and supplies while winter approached horrified him. For the first time, he had sympathy for the Free Folk and their hatred for kneeling.

Still, duty and honor and the last traces of a fading friendship drove him back to the Red Keep.

A week later, the courtyard was full of preparations.  Elaborate tents, wagons full of every luxury and hundreds of servants crowded the large space. Horses stood saddled and bedecked in Baratheon colors, from the saddle blankets to the tassels on the harnesses.  It was as if fate was an old horse pulling back toward a familiar path, even as the rider tried to turn it aside. This time, Ned rode with the hunting party, his guts in knots. No words had convinced Robert to forgo the hunt, and Ned felt like fate had become a fear-crazed horse that he could not rein or stop. 

Robert rode at the head of the procession as it travelled toward the city gates, slow enough that children ran ahead, grew bored waiting for them, and ran back. But eventually they left the city and the stench and reached the woods. Ned kept near Robert, his eyes always on the forest. He could not stop Robert from drinking, but perhaps he could kill the boar before it could reach him.

“This is more like it,” Robert said happily.  “Yohn said Whale Song is a city that smells of the open forest. How do you manage it?”

“I don’t,” Ned said easily. “The Free Folk use every scrap, so there is nothing left to rot in corners, your grace.”

“King’s Landing is nothing but rot. Rot and rumor.” Robert emptied his cup and held it out for his cupbearer to refill it. The lad was no more than seven or eight and dressed in green. Ned wondered if he was from a Reach house or one of the Crownland or Stormland houses that favored the color. But he wasn’t a Lannister. The first time Ned had lived, Robert had been surrounded by gold haired lions in red. Perhaps the rumors had caused Robert to keep more distance between himself and his wife’s family, and that could only be for the good.

“How is Myrcella, truly?” Robert asked.

“Robb’s reports suggest she is happy, and he sounds besotted with her. He tells me she is a wonderful horsewoman and brilliant with a bow and an excellent listener and wonderful with handling family and beautiful and graceful and smart and perfect in every way.”

Robert laughed. “She’s a good girl. She deserves someone who thinks her worthy of the world.”

“That describes Robb.” Ned said fondly.  This was a pairing he favored. He would have favored it in his first life even if Myrcella had been several years younger, but Robert had been determined to put a Stark on the throne.

“We’ll have a grand wedding,” Robert said. “Cersei will want to have it in the Sept here, but Myrcella is becoming a Northern lady. I think we should bring the entire court North. You seem to have half their children up there already.”

“Those children hope to make themselves known to your children,” Ned pointed out.

“No, that’s what their parents want. Their parents move their children about the way our parents did. The game of marriages they call it in the Red Keep. They use your good nature to find their children better matches.”

“Maybe,” Ned admitted. “Olenna Tyrell hopes her niece will find a Northern match.”

“Will she?” Robert asked, his curiosity making his words sharper.

“Aye. She’s strong and a good horsewoman. If she stops looking at my youngest daughter, some boy will catch her eye.”

Robert laughed. “It would serve the queen of thorns right if her niece refused all men. Some do, you know.”

“Few have the choice,” Ned countered.  “But even if she takes no husband, she will help the peace of the kingdom by having friends across the kingdom. I believe that is what our parents hoped for–alliances across the Vale, Stormlands and North. And they succeeded.”

“Well enough that we unthroned the dragons,” Robert said with a laugh. The lords who rode with them then crowded in, wanting their own time with the king. Ned pulled away and let them press their suits while Robert grew more and more frustrated with the politics.

Hours later, they had left most of the servants behind to set up tents while the rest of them rode into the woods.  Hunt masters and huntsmen rode ahead to search for prey, but Ned was growing more concerned with how often Robert called for another cup of ale. Part of Ned had hoped that the changes he had made would save his friend instead of simply postponing fate, but this hunting trip felt like the hand of some malicious god pushing them back into the familiar ruts.

Robert was still a sloppy drunk struggling to stay in the saddle, and Ned feared he would, once again, die on the hunt.

“Have a cup,” Robert said. He urged his wine bearer to close the distance.

“I must decline,” Ned said. “I am old enough that I require my wits on a hunt if I want to avoid making a fool of myself.”

“Nonsense,” Robert said, scoffing. “Your king orders you to drink.” He gestured to the wine bearer to refill Ned’s cup, and Ned allowed it. 

He drank, limiting himself to a mouthful of the sour ale. “Northern ales are better.”

“Northern ales have killed your ability to taste,” Robert said.  “Oy! Where is the game?” He kicked his horse, guiding it toward the huntmaster who had just appeared.

Ned pulled his horse up next to Barristan. “His grace is not feeling well. Remain close to him and make sure he is not injured,” Ned said.

Barristan gave him a curious look. “His grace has ordered us to keep a certain distance. I cannot do more than I am right now, Lord Stark.” He urged his horse forward, and Ned was left trailing behind, the cup still in his hand.  He flicked the contents toward the bushes.

Two hours later, Ned was ready to demand they all return to the camp, but Robert was so deep into his cups, he would not listen.  Ned even felt unsteady from the number of times Robert had pressed him to drink. Each time, Ned took only a mouthful, but the ale was unusually strong for southern drink.  The kingsguard and huntmasters were the only ones who weren’t unsteady in the saddle, and Ned would not trust Trant to protect Robert from a six-week puppy with milk teeth.

“There it is!” Robert roared. He kicked his horse, and the beast surged forward.  A huntmaster raced to Robert’s side, offering a spear. Ned signaled for someone to bring him one as well, and he prepared to protect Robert from the boar that in his other life had gored the king and set in motion the events that led to war and the near-destruction of the Stark line.

Instead, Robert slid off the back of his horse in slow motion, his arms going up into the air, and the horse rearing as Robert jerked on the reins.  Ned pulled his horse aside for fear it would step on the king or kick him, and then the whole company was in chaos.  A half-dozen men lost control of their horses, and with each animal that reared, the others grew more panicked.

Ned dismounted and hurried to Robert’s side, using the spear that had just been pressed into his hand to thump the nose of a horse that came too near.  Robert lay on the ground laughing, delighted with the chaos, although when he woke in the morning bruised from tip to stern, he would rethink that. 

Barristan and Trant pressed through the throng while huntsmen captured the spooked horses.

“Your grace, are you unharmed?” Trant looked at Ned with suspicion, as if he were likely to hurt the king.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Robert grinned like a madman. Trant tried to help the king up, but he fell back to the ground.

“We should return to camp,” Ned said.

“We will when I kill something,” Robert roared.

Ned gripped his temper and reminded himself Robert was no longer the boy Ned could scold when his antics threatened to get them in trouble with their foster father in the Vale. “Your grace, this southern ale has left my stomach unquieted. You may be willing to kill something, but I would prefer some quiet and my blankets and a generous bedpan.”

That made Robert roar with laughter. “You’re old Ned.”

“As old as you, your grace.”

“I will never get old. I’m the king. I order it such!” Robert laughed more.

“Then what you say must be done,” Ned agreed.  Trant and Barristan worked together to get Robert to his feet, but he was so deep in his cups that it took both men, and then more had to get his horse and find a mounting block because Robert was in no shape to climb on unassisted. Perhaps Robert wanted his kingsguard to keep their distance, but Trant and Barristan had to ride on either side of him to keep him in his seat, and halfway back to camp where luxurious tents and beds and furs and silks had been laid out, Robert went from laughter to moans.

Were Robert his child, Ned would make liberal use of guilt and point out that he had warned him about overindulgence. As it was, he assisted the kingsguard in the task of returning Robert to his tent. Robert’s squires, three boys who took charge of the king, and Ned returned to the tend he had been assigned along with a stewart.

Ned dismissed him and stripped out of his gambeson. He thought travel and the stress of returning to King’s Landing had left him off-balance, but by evening, Ned knew something was drastically wrong.  Most of the party who had ridden in the hunt were ill, some vomiting. Others suffering from watery stool. Yet others dizzy and unable to stand.  Ned was affected less than most, but he had fallen several times trying to move from Robert’s tent to the tent of the maester who had travelled with them.

“You must attend the king,” Ned said, clinging to the tent pole. The maester was doubled over a chamber pot.

“I cannot.”

“You must. He is far more affected than you. I will send a guard to King’s Landing, but until others arrive, you must tend him.”

The maester looked up, his face slicked with sweat. “I am too ill.”

Ned wobbled forward. “You will tend your king to the best of your ability and he will survive until new maesters arrive with appropriate medicines, or I will split you open so you can study your own innards until such time as you expire,” Ned threatened. He disliked issuing threats, but this stank of a Lannister plot and Ned would not allow the stags to gore him again. The maester’s squire gasped, but wisely kept his silence.

Ned waited until the maester stirred himself from his tent before stumbling back out.  “Barristan,” Ned called. The kingsguard watched him warily. No doubt he suspected a plot, as he should.  “Send a trusted man to King’s Landing. Only the lords are ill. Not the squires or huntsmen. There is a plot afoot.”

“I have already sent for assistance,” Barristan whispered, catching Ned under the arm when he lost his balance and nearly tumbled to the ground. “But I have done so against the king’s orders. He said he was fine and he did not want his wife to have more reason to complain.”

Ned swallowed the bile that rose, the side effect of either whatever poison they had all ingested or horror at the thought of Lannisters riding to their aid. “Tell me you have not asked for Pycelle.”

“I have not,” Barristan assured him.  A lesser lord came staggering toward the king’s tent, and Trant allowed the man to fall in the dirt. “Go back to your tent, Lord Stark. You are more hindrance than help for now.”

Ned nodded and set his sights on the nearest tent pole, hoping to reach it without falling.  Barristan held his arm until Ned moved away.  This was a plot, and nothing Ned did could change the outcome.  He was too late. Again.

But this time there was no wound, no stinking infection that could not be burned out. Robert was tough and stubborn. Poison alone might fail to fell him, particularly if Pycelle could be kept away. All was not lost.

But Ned knew nothing that could assist his friend now, so he climbed back in bed and clung to the edge to prevent himself from flinging himself off as the feeling of falling grew worse. Whatever poison this was, the soul who invented it should be cursed by the gods, old and new.