ROBERT I

Late morning

20th Day of the 1st Month; 298 A.L.

Winterfell

The North; Westeros

He watched hesitantly as Alexander shook hands with Ned, his breath short and labored.

There was just something about that boy. He couldn't place his finger on it, he most likely never would, but it bugged him all the same. The tempered smiles, the long looks, the hidden genius, for he knew the boy was a genius, and none would deny that. It was all just so . . . unnatural.

Years ago, Pycelle, the old fool, had shared his sentiments, for they had all been worried about his son's state. But then he had changed his mind, declaring that while the boy might be odd for his age, it was his intellect that was the cause and nothing else.

Robert didn't buy that for a minute.

Don't get him wrong, he loved the boy, just as he would love any son, well, except Joffrey of course, but that was different. Alexander might not look up to him, and well, who could blame him for that, but damn it, he sure could act like a Baratheon from time to time.

Alexander had been a weak boy when he was younger. Always stuck in his books and tomes, always hiding away in his room, always hanging out with those weird friends of his. He remembered having made an offhanded comment about it to the kid once. He had been drunk at the time, and his words were probably overly harsh for the situation, but the kid had taken them to heart.

He had raised his head, gone to see his uncle, and basically demanded that he be given more sword lessons.

And that was that.

His second son would never wield the great Warhammer, but damn could he swing a sword when he needed to.

A great talent he was not, and even now his movements sometimes seemed off step and clunky, but he trained his ass off to get himself to where he was now. That Lannister cunt could whip his head off in a matter of seconds if he wanted to, but yeah he could probably whip off anyone head at a moment's notice. That was what he was known for, wasn't it?

No, no, it didn't matter. The boy would never be a master swordsman like his uncle, nor a great warrior like his father, but his martial talents were there, and for that, well, Robert was proud.

Maybe the only thing he had been proud of in recent memory . . .

Too much history still clouded his mind, drove him to the depths of humanity. Sometimes, he wondered why he still sat on that damn throne. Fuck, he would have let Tywin take it years ago if only so he could go escape to Essos, maybe go crack some more Targaryen skulls, but Jon wouldn't have a word of it, and he eventually had given up on the idea years ago.

For too long he had holed himself away in the damn capital, surrounded by those twice-damned courtiers and sycophants, forgetting about what life was really about.

All of his friends had long since died around him. His old friends from the war against the Targaryens had slowly died off in the Stormlands. His great uncle, or whatever the hell he was, the one who he had convinced Jon to make Master of Coin, had also died years back. Jon, dear, sweet old Jon . . . he was now gone from the world as well; felled by a fever of all things.

But he was here. Ned was here.

Ned was the only one left.

He was the last one that Robert could truthfully remember having happy times with, living his best life.

Not only that, for Lyanna was here as well.

He had been hiding from her for years. That's why he had refused to come North, even when Jon had told him it would do him good. Her presence, or the mere thought of her presence, it has chilled his bones, frozen his mind, terrified him to the depths.

Now though, he could wait no longer. He had had enough of running from his fears, of the loss of his past.

"Ned, take me to the crypts!" he bellowed out, his decision made and his mind set.

Eddard seemed shocked at first, looking at the Queen and then back at him, trying to confirm what to do.

Honestly, he didn't give a flying fuck about the damn Lannister woman right now. She had given him the cold shoulder for the entire ride up here, for the last decade really, and she and her pride wouldn't, couldn't, stop him now.

"It's been a long ride, love, can't it wait till later?" she asked, her snide tone ever present.

Robert shot her a look of disgust. What did she know of loss? Of regret? Nothing. She had nothing important to say on the matter, and he wouldn't have cared anyways.

He nodded at Ned and then took off towards the castle, Ned's heavy footsteps rushing to keep up with him. A few stone might have been packed onto him, but he could still move fast if he was motivated.

Soon enough he was trudging down a cold hallway of grey stone, so very simple and Stark-like it almost made the old King laugh. But now was not the time or the place.

Ned tried to keep pace with him, a lantern held high to illuminate the dark and damp cobblestones beneath them. He walked a few feet behind, looking cautiously around as Robert has his eyes set forwards.

Just like all those years back in the Eyrie . . .

Him, the bold adventurer, daring the fears towards the summit.

Ned, the careful companion, always checking out for things unseen.

But those adventures had been long ago, when he was a young arrogant lord and Ned was a young shy brat. Times were different now, him sitting on that ugly chair down south and Ned hidden up in the north.

Talking of the North . . .

"I was afraid we would never get here for some time," Robert complained as they marched onwards, "Sometimes, down south, a man forgets that your Kingdom is as large as any of the others put together. Quite a thing it is, really."

Ned looked thoughtful, as if being reminded of the fact for the first time in a while

"I trust the journey was at least enjoyable then?"

Robert snorted, his big beard shaking with amusement.

"Better than I was led to believe to be honest. Decent inns and food. Stopped in a few nicer towns along the way," a smirk made its way onto his face, "Wenches a plenty at every one! Eh Ned?"

The northerner said nothing. Seems like at least Ned hadn't changed much. But then, neither had he, truly. Still talking about girls as he did, well, what did you expect?

"I guess so, Your Grace. Kings are a rare sight in the north."

Bland statement, lacking completely in emotion and meaning. Yep, typical Ned.

"My stupid counselors told me that the roads would be washed away and the people all hidden in the field, but what do they know, eh? All a bunch of fools if you ask me!"

Aha! Ned cracked a smile at that one. He knew he could get to him eventually.

"And what do the Royal Princes think of the North so far, Your Grace?" Ned asked, a blanket of seriousness falling over him once more.

"Tommen and Myrcella are just glad to go somewhere other than King's Landing. Gods, and so am I!" he laughed, "Joffrey's been quiet most of the time. Contemplative, I guess. Alexander too, actually. Been taking notes in that little black notebook of his."

He could see Ned opening his mouth out of the corner of his eyes.

"Don't ask me why," he cut him off, "It's the only Kingdom he hasn't seen yet, apart from Dorne of course.

He paused for a second.

"Wouldn't ever let him travel down there, no matter how much he asked. Vipers down there would kill him before I could grab my Warhammer to go down and save the poor boy!"

"I would have thought that Dorne would have put aside their grievances by now," Ned asked, seemingly surprised at the notion.

He huffed in a mixture of amusement and irritation.

"Then you'd be wrong, my friend. They're still as hostile as he day that fat septon put the crown on my damn head! You remember the Greyjoys right?"

Ned nodded.

"They didn't send a single soldier North to help us all out! Not a single one!"

Now his friend looked surprised at least, a deep consternation plastered over his solemn face.

"Damn traitors if you ask me! I called their fucking banners, and they didn't respond! According to the law, that's high treason! I went through the books myself to make sure!"

"Hmm," was all he received in return. Hells. How did the man always seem to know when he was lying?

"Fine," he threw up his arms, "I had my Master of Laws check the books for me! But I was the one who made him."

Come on! Give him some credit for that, at least.

"Speaking of laws, Your Grace, I was wondering if I might speak to you at some point about some of the new taxes levied on the Riverlands crossing points?" Ned commented softly.

Robert stopped walking for a second and furrowed his brows, allowing Ned to continue.

"As you know, we are currently in a Long Summer, and while the crops are plentiful, the taxes are no big matter. But my maester has informed me that they may pose some serious problems for us once the heavy snows start to set in and we have to rely on my goodfather's family for supplies."

He tried to digest Ned's words, the question swirling around in his head. Taxes in the Riverlands? What the fuck was he supposed to know about taxes in the fucking Riverlands? Didn't Ned know better than to ask him such things.

He waved him off, "Come on Ned, you can ask Jon lat . . ."

He froze. His hands went immobile in mid-air and the words died on his throat.

What a hard way for the truth to smack you in the face.

Robert turned, leaning against the wall for a minute, struggling to regain his breath.

For a minute, his mind went blank, and he struggled to hold back the tears dripping from his eyes. He felt a cold shiver run down his back and he almost fell down the wall, such was the weight of his emotions.

Eventually, he turned around, daring himself to face Ned, the one man left, the one man he knew he could trust, above all the others.

His friend's face was pointed downwards, his eyes closed, and he knew, in his heart, that no matter the solemnness that was the very definition of the northern lord, Ned felt it just as much as he did.

"Ned . . ." he started slowly, his voice softer than a whisper.

"No, Robert." He was cut off, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even brought it up. It was unneeded."

The King wiped away his tears, the fabric of his thick overcoat brushing against his cheeks. Always like Ned to be the first to apologize. Things never changed with the man.

And they never should have. Damn it, he should have stayed south with him, help him rule, help him live.

He needed Ned Stark.

"Ned," he started again, his voice calmer but still ragged, "I want . . ."

No. He couldn't do it like this. Whimpering and shivering was not in Robert's style, and it shouldn't ever be.

He stood tall, throwing his chaotic feelings out for now, to be revisited only when he was alone. Now was the time for action. He had made his choice long ago, and he would not back down now.

It was clear, and in that one moment, it all seemed so simple.

"I want you to come back with me to King's Landing."

Ned stared, his grey eyes unblinking, his face betraying not a single emotion.

"I want you to be my Hand, Ned." He finished, trying to sound as confident and commanding as possible, but knowing that after the previous display, it was probably lost on the both of them.

At that, Ned went down to his knees again, trying miserably to hide this surprise.

Figures. Ned wasn't stupid. He must have known the true reason the King came north. No matter how much his old friend must have tried to deny it in his mind, now they were both here. Decisions were going to have to be made.

Robert knew, though many would tell him otherwise, that he could have no Hand but Eddard Stark. None. There was naught a single other man in the realm who was as fit for the responsibility than the Stark.

The Hand, stripped away of all the ceremonial foolishness, was without a doubt that second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. He commanded the King's armies, wrote the King's laws, dispensed the King's justice, and even sat on that damn Iron Throne when the King could not. In truth, the Hand was a King in all but name.

It was for that reason that it was absolutely essential that the Hand be a man of loyal virtues, one who could be trusted.

Jon Arryn could be trusted. He had raised him, taken care of him, gone to war for him, sacrificed his family and his men for him. Arryn was more invested in the throne than even he was.

But now that Jon had passed, the vacuum of power was open once more, and all those useless nobles down in the capital were scrambling over themselves to acquire it.

Cersei, the stupid woman she was, had the gall, the sheer audacity, the propose the Kingslayer for the position! The nerve of her! Like he would ever trust that man near a position of power, not least his own body.

No. Ned was the only one, the only one, who he could trust with the power and privilege that came with the office. He knew, even if he didn't have proof, that everyone in court wanted to see him fall. They begged every night that he would fail, leave the realm and allow them to seize the damn fucking throne for themselves.

Especially those Targaryen loyalists. They were out there, and he knew it.

Ned, Ned would put them in place, he told himself.

He would bring the same harsh iron of the north to beat those southern fools into a pulp, and by the Gods would Robert be cheering him along the entire way.

"Your Grace," came Ned, his words slow and deliberate, "I am . . . not worthy of the honor."

Fuck that, was the first thing that came to Robert's mind.

"I'm not trying to honor you, Ned" he scolded the kneeling man, "I'm trying to give the realm a responsible ruler while I waste away drinking until I pass out fucking whores."

It was blunt, but all would know it was the easiest of truths. Robert was no ruler. He was well aware of that. Jon had been a good Hand, a competent Hand, and Ned would be the same.

"You know the saying, about the king and his Hand?"

Ned nodded quickly before replying. "What the king dreams," he said, "the Hand builds."

"I bedded a fishmaid once who told me the lowborn have a choicer way to put it. The king eats, they say, and the Hand takes the shit."

He stifled a laugh and retained his somber tone, the words coming across bluntly rather than the humorous way he intended. The quite chuckle died in the air, the cold breathe of the Stark crypts giving an eerie mood to the whole affair.

Ned was still on one knee, his eyes upraised. "Damn it, Ned," Robert complained. "You might at least humor me with a smile."

"They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a man's laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death," Ned said evenly. "Perhaps that is why the Starks have so little humor."

"That's exactly why I need you Ned. You were always more cut out for the business of lords than I was," he admitted. "You helped me win the damn throne, now help me keep it."

He could see Ned struggling, unsure of whether to commit himself or not.

He needed one last push. A call to family . . . and the promise of a future one.

"If Lyanna had lived," he said slowly," We could have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it's not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My son Joffrey and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done."

At this though, Ned raised himself, that look of silent unease back over his face.

"Sansa is but thirteen." He mentioned.

"And Joffrey is sixteen, his brother but a year behind him. Neither of them are married yet, and every year that passes I receive more stupid offers for their hands. Let it be yours's that I accept Ned."

Robert didn't see the problem with it at all. Girls were betrothed younger than thirteen, and some were even married by her age.

Plus, the constant stream of courtiers politely and subtly requesting royal matches were a headache beyond belief. It used to be fun. They invited him to grand banquets and put on displays that marveled him. Now, with the princes and princess still unmatched, they had stopped such practices.

If it was up to Cersei, all four of them would be paired with more of those Gods-damned blond haired Lannisters from the West. Disgusting, and it smacked far too much of Targaryen practices for Robert to ever consider it.

He would decide Alexander's fate later, the boy could wait, but Joffrey could not. The cruel attitudes of his first son had not gone unnoticed, and he more than anyone needed a nice girl to calm him down. Sansa would do. Varys had already told him about her traits, and her docile posture in the courtyard at least gave partial evidence to what he had already heard. Yes, she would be good for Joff.

"She's old enough for a betrothal," Robert continued, "She can come down to King's Landing with you and wait a year or two for a proper marriage."

It was the perfect solution. A solution that would right old wrongs, correct the mistake of the Gods.

He smiled. "Now stand up and say yes, curse you."

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Grace," Ned answered, but then he saw the spark of realization in the man's eyes. "These honors are all so unexpected. May I have some time to consider? I need to tell my wife . . ."

"Yes, yes, of course, tell Catelyn, sleep on it if you must." He reached down and Ned by the hand, and pulled him roughly to his feet. "Just don't keep me waiting too long. We can't stay here all year waiting for you to make up your mind."

They both stood there. Silent. Solemn. Robert looked around, uncomfortable with this environment.

"Come on Ned," he tried to break the tension in the hall, "Let's go see her."

He took off once more, Ned walking at his side now rather than behind. Around them, the stone walls became visibly older and more foreboding. He looked at the stone figures all around them, breathed deep in the chill silence of the crypt. It felt as if the eyes of the dead on them both, criticizing, disapproving, questioning. He did not like it at all.

Soon enough, the two men reached the bottom of the stairs, his own hands shivering at his side as they stepped out into the darkness of the crypt.

"Your Grace," Ned said respectfully. He swept the lantern in a wide semicircle. The shadows on the walls jumped from statue to statue, evading the light like dancing figures. In front of them stood a long procession of granite pillars that were arranged in pairs in the specter of the dark. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones against the walls, backs against the cold stone that contained their mortal remains.

"She is down at the end, with Father and Brandon."

Ned walked deliberately, as if afraid to provoke the carvings, leading the way between the pillars as he followed wordlessly, shivering in the subterranean chill. Together, their footsteps rang off the stones and echoed in the vault overhead. One by one, the Lords of Winterfell watched them pass. The blind eyes stared out into eternal darkness as great stone direwolves lay near their feet. The shifting shadows made the stone figures seem to stir as the living passed by.

They stopped at last and Ned lifted the oil lantern. The crypt continued on into darkness ahead of them, but beyond this point the tombs were empty and unsealed.

In the distance, he could hear Ned indicate a statue on the far left, but his voice sunk into the shadows as Robert laid his eyes upon her.

He nodded silently, knelt, and bowed his head.

There were three tombs, side by side. Lord Rickard Stark, Ned's father, had a long, stern face. The stonemason had known him well. He sat with quiet dignity, stone fingers holding tight to the sword across his lap, but in life all swords had failed him.

Robert had never had the chance to meet with the great northern lord, but he had heard only good things of the man. To have raised a son as good as Ned, he surely must have been.

To his side, Lyanna's face stared at him emotionlessly. She had only been sixteen, a child-woman of surpassing loveliness. He had loved her with all of his heart. She was to have been his bride.

But now she was here, dead, and Robert could never have her, never see her smile again.

And so no matter where he was, or who he was with, his heart would remain here, with her, broken and dead, just like the woman he would forever love.

"She was more beautiful than this," he said after a silence. His eyes lingered on Lyanna's face, as if he could will her back to life. "Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this?"

His voice was hoarse with remembered grief. "She deserved more than this, better than this . . ."

"She was a Stark of Winterfell," Ned said quietly. "This is her place."

He paused once more.

"I was with her when she died. She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father."

The king touched her cheek, his fingers brushing across the rough stone as gently as if it was living flesh.

"I bring her flowers when I can," Ned continued. "Lyanna was . . . fond of flowers."

"I vowed to kill Rhaegar for what he did to her." Robert interrupted him.

"You did," Ned reminded him.

"Only once," Robert said bitterly.

He closed his eyes, and imaged the exact moment once more.

There, it was, crystal clear, implanted in the depths of his mind even after all of these years. Somehow, he was sure it would never fade.

They had seen each other at the ford of the Trident while the battle crashed around them, he with his warhammer and the great antlered helm, the Targaryen bastard armored all in black.

Unconsciously, the noise of the battle had drowned around him, and all he could see was red, the red of rage, the red of fury.

Ours is the fury indeed.

They circled each other, sword swinging high and low and warhammer crashing down from the sky, anger and hatred the only things in his mind. At last, a crushing blow from his hammer caved in the chest of the dragon and the fucking bastard fell in front of him.

He was standing over him now, the black armored man lying on the ground, red blood oozing from his body into the water.

The warhammer came crashing down again . . . and again . . . and again . . . hacking away bit by bit at the man who had ruined everything, forever.

It was so . . . sweet . . . delicious, like sweet candy that played itself over and over again in his dreams. It was intoxicating, and he bathed in the feeling every night.

Finally, the dragonspawn lay dead in the stream, while men of both armies scrabbled in the swirling waters for rubies knocked free of his armor.

"In my dreams, I kill him every night," he admitted. "A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves."

There was nothing Ned could say to that. "We should return, Your Grace. Your wife will be waiting."

"The Others take my wife," he muttered sourly, but he turned around and started back the way they had come, his footsteps falling heavily. "And if I hear 'Your Grace' once more, I'll have your head on a spike. We are more to each other than that."

"I had not forgotten," Ned replied quietly.

Then came the question he had been waiting for.

"Tell me about Jon."

He shook his head. "Truth is; he'd been dying for a few moons. I guess we all just refused to see it. He kept going, always in his office or out in the streets. In the last weeks, I'm told he went down to the ports every day, checking on something or . . . I don't know. . ."

He stopped beside a pillar, before the tomb of a long-dead Stark. "I loved that old man."

"We both did." Ned nodded pensively, "That sounds like Jon though. Working hard until the very end. A dedicated man."

Robert smiled fondly, once again trying to hold back the onset of despair at the memories. "That he was." He frowned. "Still, it was awful for him the last two weeks. His skin pale and falling off of him. I couldn't bear to look at him near the end."

It was true. The last time he had seen the old man, you could literally see the veins bleeding inside of him. It was grotesque, to say the least. Robert had seen death before, a lot of it, but this was different.

He was familiar to executions, beheadings, hangings, casualties of war and the like.

Jon had lay there, unmoving, his mouth open and his body shaking in odd intervals, his eyes darting around, desperately looking for something on the walls.

The feeling of helplessness, the fact that he could do nothing, weighed on him heavily.

Until the very end, he had refused to come to terms with the fact that Jon was dying. No, it simply wasn't possible, he told himself. Jon had lived through other illnesses before, but, as Robert should have realized, this was no natural illness. Instead, he had sat on his throne, drinking more than he probably should have, just trying to drown it away.

Pycelle declared leprosy, of all things, the cause of death.

Robert had refused to believe that at first as well. After all, how could a simply disease such a leprosy kill off such a great man such as Jon?

But it seemed like, for once, Pycelle had been accurate. According to the maesters, hundreds in King's Landing had fallen victim to the horror during the same months. As usual, they separated the sick from the healthy, taking drastic measures from the very onset to prevent the spread of it.

Surprisingly, only a couple hundred had fallen sick, probably dying the same tragic death that dear Jon had. Most had expected the numbers to be far higher, but as long as it did not become a crisis, Robert was content to ignore the small details.

Jon though, damn it, they should have been able to save him!

With the proper instruments and the proper care, he knew that leprosy could be treated, maybe not cured, but postponed for sure.

Pycelle said he had done all he could, but he didn't trust the poor man one bit.

And yet, the other maesters that resided at the Red Keep had all attended to Jon, and they had all failed just as badly. They tried ointments, dry bleeding, and anything else they could think of, but it had all been for naught. On certain days, it appeared as though Jon was getting better, but the very next day his skin would be pale and red once more, the disease striking back harder than it could be delayed.

"Catelyn fears for her sister. How has Lysa dealt with her grief?" Ned's words shook him out of his own thoughts, bringing him back into the real world.

"Badly, to put it in a word," he replied bluntly, "Loosing Jon has driven her mad, Ned. She had fled and taken her son back to the Eyrie not a night after his passing. I was hoping to foster him with Renly down in Storm's End, show him what's what and the stuff. Jon had no brothers, no other sons. Was I supposed to leave him to be raised by his wife?"

"She had just lost her husband," Ned said carefully. "Perhaps she feared to lose her son as well. The boy is still very young, and Catelyn has told me that her sister was always the more temperamental of the two of them."

"Six, sickly, and Lord of the Eyrie. Gods have mercy," he swore. "I worry for the boy, honestly. Cooped up in the Eyre with only his mother and her guards for company. That's no way for him to grow up. No, not at all." He sighed deeply. "The boy is my namesake; did you know that? Robert Arryn. I am sworn to protect him. How can I do that if his mother steals him away?"

"I can take him as ward, if you wish," Ned offered. "Lysa should consent to that. She and Catelyn were close as girls, and she would be welcome here as well."

"A generous offer, for sure," he considered, "She has yet to write to me or to anyone else at court, or so I am told. Perhaps if you come south you can use that damned family relationship to appeal to her better senses."

"Perhaps," Ned answered cryptically.

He was still uncommitted on whether to accept the Handship. Robert knew it would be difficult to convince his stubborn friend, but he didn't think he would have to browbeat him to get his damn consent.

"These are difficult times. I need good men about me. Men like Jon Arryn. He served as Lord of the Eyrie, as Warden of the East, as the Hand of the King. He will not be easy to replace." He said, trying to appeal to Ned's duty if nothing else.

"His son . . ." Ned began.

"His son will succeed to the Eyrie and all its incomes," Robert retorted brusquely. "No more."

That clearly took Ned by surprise. He stopped, startled, and turned to face him. The words came unbidden. "The Arryns have always been Wardens of the East. The title goes with the domain."

"Perhaps when he comes of age the honor can be bestowed upon an Arryn once more," he said. "But not now. He is too young. No experience at all. A six-year-old boy is no war leader, Ned."

Ned's wasn't happy about that explanation. "In times of peace, the title is only an honor. Let the boy keep it. For his father's sake if not his own. Surely you owe Jon that much for his service."

He huffed, hating being reminded of the man now passed more than he had to. He had already spoken his words on Jon Arryn, and he would consider these matters no more.

"Jon's service was the duty he owed his liege lord." He spoke with a tone of finality, "I am not ungrateful, Ned. You of all men ought to know that. But the son is not the father. A mere boy cannot hold the east."

Then his tone softened. "Enough of this. Enough of the damn politics for now. Ned, we'll talk about the Handship again tomorrow, but for now, let's put it to the side. Come on, right? We're friends, Ned."

At that, he saw the dour Stark crack a smile, a sincere one this time.

"Let's go feast tonight, and let memories long passed be relived once more!"

He stopped for a second, and Ned looked at him questioningly.

"How big are your stores of northern ale?" he whispered conspiratorially.

Ned's head fell back chuckling. It wasn't a full blown laugh, but hey, it was most likely all the expression he was ever going to get out of the man.

He slapped his old friend on the back, leading them forwards out of the crypts into Winterfell proper, a thousand jokes on his tongue ready to tell throughout the night.