He dreamt an old dream.
The tower rose before him again, pale and round against a sky the color of old blood. The red mountains of Dorne brooded at his back, harsh and jagged, their peaks like broken teeth biting at the heavens. The wind was dry there, hot and full of dust, and it stung the eyes. Even in sleep he could taste it.
He had ridden there with friends, in dreams they rode as they had in life.
Proud Martyn Cassel, Jory's father, grim of face and quick to laughter; faithful Theo Wull, huge as an oak and twice as stubborn; Ethan Glover, who had once squired for Brandon and lived when so many better men had died; soft-spoken Ser Mark Ryswell; grim Lord Dustin upon his great red stallion; and Howland Reed, small and silent in his bog-sodden leathers, watching with eyes that missed little.
Ned had known their faces once as well as his own. Time had thinned them. The years leech at a man's memories, no matter how tightly he clings. Now they were grey wraiths, mounted on horses made of mist, cloaks stirring without sound.
All save one. William stood beside him as he always had. Proud, broad-shouldered, stubborn as any northman, with a face that did not blur or fade.
They were eight facing three whose white cloaks snapped in the wind. The swords of the now-dead king. They were never shadows. Their faces burned bright in Ned's memory, even in this old buried dream.
Lord commander Gerold Hightower stood at the center, the White Bull they called him. To his right, Ser Oswell Whent knelt upon one knee, whetstone rasping softly along the edge of his blade. The black bat of his house spread its wings across his enameled helm. To the left stood Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, pale as dawn itself, a sad smile playing upon his lips. The hilt of the greatsword Dawn rose above his shoulder.
"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned heard himself say. His voice in the dream was younger, harder. It carried across the sand and stone.
"We were not there," Ser Gerold answered, his tone measured.
"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell, rising now to his feet.
William stepped forward, steel whispering as he drew his longsword and held it with both hands. He did not smile.
"Now it's woe to your bastard silver prince," he said, his voice hard and rough.
"When King's Landing fell, and Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, where were you?" Ned asked again.
"Far away," Ser Gerold said, "Or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells."
"No," William countered, anger plain upon his face. "You would have died with him."
Behind them the wraiths shifted, as if memory itself bristled at the thought.
"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them. "The Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners. All their knights bent the knee and pledged us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."
"Our knees do not bend easily," said Ser Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning's voice was calm, almost courteous.
"It did to madmen and rapists," William said sharply, meeting Arthur's gaze. There was no courtesy in him.
A flicker passed across Ser Gerold's face, but his voice did not change. "We swore a vow."
"We all swore a vow," William answered, softer now, though no less firm.
They all did, Ned thought, Vows to their kin. Vows to their gods. Vows to their liege. Vows to their hearts. Some could not be kept while keeping the other. He knew too well what vows cost.
"Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him." Ned spoke again.
"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Ser Oswell.
"But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee."
"Then or now," Ser Arthur added, as he took up his helm and settled it upon his head. "I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, lord Stark."
Behind him, the wraiths moved up beside William, shadow swords drawn. They were six against three.
"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade came free, pale as milkglass, alive with light. It seemed to drink the sun and give it back brighter. Ned had never seen its like before or since.
"No," Ned said, and there was weariness in his voice, and something like sorrow. "Now it ends."
As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. "Eddard!" she called.
A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death. The petals clung, red on white, red on blue, red all over.
"Eddard!"
Ned tried to turn toward the tower, but he seemed to drown in the blood of shadows. The world narrowed to his shallow breath and the ringing of steel.
Then it was quiet. Too quiet.
He was on his knees in the sand. Ice lay beside him, half-buried, its great blade dark with blood. The red mountains stood silent. A single raven circled overhead, black against the merciless sky.
"William," Ned whispered.
"Promise me, Ned…"
"Promise me…."
The words seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. From William's lips. From Lyanna's. From the tower. From the wind.
Ned bowed his head. "I promise, Will," he whispered. His voice broke upon the sand. "Lya, I promise…"
"Lord Eddard." a man echoed from the dark.
Groaning, Eddard Stark opened his eyes. Moonlight spilled pale and cold through tall windows. The air smelled of dust and herbs.
A shadow loomed over him. "Lord Eddard?"
Ned tried to move and pain answered, sharp and blinding. His leg was heavy, bound tight in splints and plaster. The sheets were twisted about him, damp with sweat.
"How… how long?" His voice was raw as if he had swallowed sand.
"Six days and seven nights," Vayon Poole stepped forward into the moonlight, his face lined with worry. The steward held a cup to Ned's lips. "Drink, my lord."
"What…?"
"Only water. Maester Pycelle said you would be thirsty."
Thirsty seemed too small for the dryness that plagued him. His lips were cracked, his tongue thick and useless. The water was cool and tasted as sweet as honey.
"The king left orders," Vayon Poole told him when the cup was drained and set aside. "He would speak with you, my lord."
"On the morrow," Ned said. His voice was steadier now, though his limbs felt carved of lead. "When I am stronger."
He could not face Robert yet. Not with the dream still clinging to him like cobwebs. Promise me.
"My lord," Poole said carefully, "His Grace commanded us to send you to him the moment you opened your eyes."
Of course he did. Robert had never been patient, not as a boy in the Vale, not as a rebel lord, and not as a king. Ned heard the scrape of flint as the steward lit a bedside candle. Its small flame pushed back the dark but did little to warm the room.
Ned cursed softly beneath his breath.
"Tell him I am too weak to come to him," he said. "If he wishes to speak with me, I should be pleased to receive him here." A faint edge crept into his voice. "I hope you wake him from a sound sleep."
Poole inclined his head, though worry lined his brow.
"And summon…" Ned began.
He was about to say Jory. The name caught in his throat like a shard of bone. Jory was gone. Cut down in the street like some common brigand. The memory ached sharper than the pain in his leg.
"Summon the captain of my guard," he finished, the words tasting of ash.
Poole bowed and withdrew. Alyn entered a short while later, closing the door softly behind him. He looked weary, but he bowed as straight as ever. "My lord."
"Poole tells me it has been six days," Ned said. "I must know how things stand."
Alyn did not hesitate. "The Kingslayer has fled the city."
Ned's eyes narrowed. "Fled?"
"The talk is that he has ridden for Casterly Rock to join his father. Ser Arthur says that the Lannisters will cause more trouble now."
Arthur had that right, Ned thought, he could only imagine what the old lion was doing. Tywin Lannister had every cause to be his enemy now, his loyal dog Gregor was executed at his command with Arthur's sword, He summoned the lion to appear before the court to answer for Gregor's confessed crimes, and now his wife had taken the imp prisoner. Tywin Lannister would not sit idle. Not while the name of his house was threatened.
"And the rest?" Ned asked.
"The tale of how Lady Catelyn took the Imp at the crossroads is on every lip," Alyn said. " The city grows restless. I have doubled the guard about your tower and posted men at your daughters' doors, if it pleases you."
"It does," Ned assured him and asked quietly. "My daughters?"
Alyn's expression softened. "They have been with you every day, my lord. The septa sits with them often as Sansa prays quietly," He went on. "She asks after your health and smiles bravely."
Ned closed his eyes briefly. He could picture Sansa at his bedside, hands folded, lips moving in silent prayer. Always dutiful, hopeful and kind. His sweet girl.
"And Arya?" Ned asked.
Alyn hesitated. "She has not said a word since they brought you back," he admitted. "Not to the septa. Not to her sister. Not even to me."
Ned's brow furrowed in worry.
"Even Ser Arthur failed to make the girl speak. He tried jests, and gifts besides, but she would not budge. Arya is a fierce little thing, my lord," Alyn said, almost with wonder. "I have never seen such anger in a girl."
Ihave, Ned thought, andit destroyed them all in the end.
"Whatever happens," Ned said, fixing Alyn with a steady gaze, "I want my daughters kept safe. No man enters their chambers without my leave."
"No harm will come to them, Lord Eddard," Alyn said. "I stake my life on that. Jory and the others… I gave them over to the silent sisters, to be sent north to Winterfell. Jory would want to lie beside his grandfather."
Ned inclined his head. "He would."
It would have to be his grandfather. Martyn Cassel lay far to the south, beneath a cairn of rough stones on a wind-scoured ridge in Dorne. Ned had raised those cairns himself, stone by bloody stone, after the tower had come crashing down. Eight against three, they had been. Yet only two had ridden away. Himself, and the little crannogman, Howland Reed. The rest were bones and memory.
The Tower of Joy, Rhaegar had named it. For Ned there had been little joy in it. He did not like that the dream had returned to him now, after so many years. Such dreams were not sent without cause.
"You've done well, Alyn," he said quietly.
A knock came, soft but insistent. Vayon Poole entered, bowing low.
"His Grace is without, my lord," the steward said, "and the queen with him."
Ned pushed himself higher against the pillows. Pain flared in his leg, sharp enough to steal his breath. He gritted his teeth and mastered it. He had not expected Cersei to come. That thought did not please him.
"Send them in," he said. "And leave us. What we have to say should not go beyond these walls."
Poole bowed and withdrew. A moment later the door opened wide.
Robert entered first. He had taken the trouble to dress. A black velvet doublet strained across his broad chest, the crowned stag of House Baratheon worked in golden thread upon the breast. A mantle of gold hung from his shoulders, clasped with a heavy brooch. In one hand he carried a flagon of wine. His face was already flushed, whether from drink or anger Ned could not say.
Cersei Lannister followed in silence, a jeweled tiara nestled in her bright hair. She wore green silk that shimmered in the candlelight, and her eyes were cool and watchful.
"Your Grace," Ned said. "Your pardons. I cannot rise."
"No matter," Robert said gruffly, waving it aside. "I have no wish to see you tumble from the bed and break the other leg." He lifted the flagon. "Wine? From the Arbor. A good vintage."
"A small cup," Ned said. "My head is still heavy from the milk of the poppy."
"A man in your place should count himself fortunate that his head is still on his shoulders," the queen declared, her voice edged like a honed blade.
"Quiet, woman," Robert snapped frustratedly. He poured and brought the cup himself, thrusting it into Ned's hand. "Does the leg still pain you?"
"Some," Ned said. The room seemed to sway faintly as he took the cup. He would not show weakness before the Lannister woman.
"Pycelle swears it will heal clean," Robert said, frowning. "Though the old fool swears many things." He took a long swallow from the flagon. "I take it you know what Catelyn has done?"
"I do." Ned wet his lips with wine. It was rich and sweet, but it sat ill in his stomach. "My lady wife is blameless, Your Grace. All she did, she did at my command."
Cersei's eyes flashed. "At your command?"
Ned met her gaze evenly. "Aye, the imp was taken on my authority."
Robert's mouth twisted. "Seven hells, Ned!"
"By what right do you dare lay hands on my blood?" Cersei demanded. "Who do you think you are?"
"The Hand of the King," Ned told her with icy courtesy. "Charged by your own lord husband to keep the king's peace and enforce the king's justice."
"You were the Hand," Cersei began, "but now—"
"Silence!" the king roared. "You asked him a question and he answered it."
Cersei fell quiet, though the anger in her eyes did not lessen. Robert looked back at Ned, his expression dark. "I am not pleased, Ned, You seized a great lord's son without so much as a word to me."
"I will answer for these actions, your grace," Ned said, carefully, "It is for the realm's peace."
Robert grumbled. "For the king's peace, you say. Is this how you keep my peace, Ned? Seven men are dead…"
"Eight," the queen corrected. "Tregar died this morning, of the blow Lord Stark gave him."
"Abductions on the kingsroad and drunken slaughter in my streets," Robert said. "I will not have it, Ned."
"Catelyn had good reason for taking the Imp—"
"I said, I will not have it!" Robert's fist came down hard against the bedpost. "To hell with her reasons. You will command her to release the dwarf at once, and you will make your peace with Jaime."
Ned's voice remained calm. "Three of my men were butchered before my eyes, because Jaime Lannister wished to chasten me. Am I to forget that?"
"My brother was not the cause of this quarrel," Cersei told the king smoothly. "Lord Stark was returning drunk from a brothel. His men attacked Jaime and his guards, even as his wife attacked Tyrion on the kingsroad."
"You know me better than that, Robert," Ned said. "Ask Lord Baelish if you doubt me. He was there."
"I've talked to Littlefinger," Robert said. "He claims he rode off to bring the gold cloaks before the fighting began, but he admits you were returning from some whorehouse."
"Some whorehouse?" Ned's temper stirred then, slow and dangerous. "Damn your eyes, Robert, I went there to have a look at your daughter. Her mother has named her Barra. She looks like that first girl you fathered, when we were boys together in the Vale."
He watched the queen as he spoke. Cersei's face was still and pale, smooth as carved stone. If the words struck her, she did not show it.
Robert flushed a deeper red. "Barra," he grumbled. "Is that supposed to please me? Damn the girl. I thought she had more sense."
"She cannot be more than fifteen, and a whore, and you thought she had sense?" Ned said. The pain in his leg throbbed in time with his pulse. It was growing harder to control. "The fool child is in love with you, Robert."
The king's eyes flicked toward Cersei. "This is no fit subject for the queen's ears."
"Her Grace will have no liking for anything I have to say," Ned replied evenly. "I am told the Kingslayer has fled the city. Give me leave to bring him back to justice."
Robert swirled the wine in his cup, watching it as if answers might be found there. He drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"No," he said at last. "I want no more of this. Jaime slew three of your men, and you five of his. Now it ends."
"Is that your notion of justice?" Ned flared. The word stung worse than the pain in his leg. "If so, I am pleased that I am no longer your Hand."
Cersei turned to her husband at once. "If any man had dared speak to a Targaryen as he has spoken to you—"
"Do you take me for Aerys?" Robert cut in sharply.
"I took you for a king," the queen said. Her voice was cool, but there was iron beneath it. "Jaime and Tyrion are your own brothers, by all the laws of marriage and the bonds we share. The Starks have driven off the one and seized the other. This man dishonors you with every breath he takes, and yet you stand there meekly, asking if his leg pains him and would he like some wine."
Robert's face darkened with anger. "How many times must I tell you to hold your tongue, woman?"
Cersei's face was a study in contempt. "What a jape the gods have made of us two," she said. "By all rights, you ought to be in skirts and me in mail."
Robert went purple with rage. He struck her then, a hard backhand across the face.
The sound cracked in the chamber.
She stumbled against the table and fell, striking the floor with a dull thud. Yet Cersei Lannister did not cry out. She rose slowly, one slender hand brushing her cheek where the pale skin already showed red. By the morrow the bruise would cover half her face.
"I shall wear this as a badge of honor," she said.
"Wear it in silence, or I'll honor you again," Robert warned. He bellowed for a guard. Ser Meryn Trant entered at once, tall and grave in his white armor.
"The queen is tired," Robert said. "See her to her bedchamber."
Ser Meryn helped her to her feet. Cersei did not look at Ned as she was led out. The door closed behind them without a word. Robert stood still a moment. Then he reached for the flagon and filled his cup.
"You see what she does to me, Ned," he said. He sank heavily into a chair, cradling the wine. "My loving wife. The mother of my children."
The fury had gone from him as swiftly as it had come, leaving behind old weariness.
"I should not have hit her," he muttered. "That was not… that was not kingly."
Robert stared down at his hand, "I was always strong," he said. "No one could stand before me. No one."
He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Tell me Ned, how do you fight someone if you can't hit them?"
Ned watched him in silence.
Robert shook his head. "Rhaegar… Rhaegar won, damn him. I killed him, Ned. I drove the spike through that black armor into his black heart, and he died at my feet. They made songs of it."
His grip tightened on the cup. "Yet somehow he still won. He has Lyanna now, and I have her."
He drank deep.
"Your Grace," Ned said carefully, "we must talk…"
Robert pressed his fingertips to his temples, eyes closed. "I am sick unto death of talk."
He opened them again, his blue eyes hard now. "On the morrow I'm sailing for the Stepstones to war. Whatever you have to say can wait until I return."
"If the gods are good, I shall not be here on your return," Ned said. "You commanded me to go back to Winterfell, remember?"
Robert pushed himself to his feet, one hand gripping a bedpost to steady the sway of wine and temper alike. "The gods are seldom good, Ned."
He fumbled inside his cloak and drew out the heavy silver hand clasp. "Here. This is yours."
He tossed it onto the bed. "Like it or not, you are my Hand, damn you. I forbid you to leave."
The silver badge lay between them, cold and bright in the candlelight.
"What will you do with him?" Ned asked. He would not let it rest. "With Jaime."
Robert gave a weary snort and reached again for the wine. "Arthur, gods bless that boy, gave me a way out of this mess of yours." He drank, then wiped his mouth. "You will command Catelyn to release the Imp. I will restore the title of Warden of the East to the boy Arryn, but Royce will serve as Lord Protector in truth. That should soothe the Vale."
He fixed Ned with a heavy look. "And to seal the peace, your youngest boy will ward with my youngest and the Arryn boy under Renly at Storm's End. The children will grow together. No more fights between the families."
Ned reached for the silver clasp and closed his hand around it. He was given little choice. "Have you agreed to this?"
"I have," Robert said. "If you agree, the matter ends."
Ned's leg throbbed, and the chamber seemed to press in on him. "The Targaryen girl—"
Robert groaned aloud. "Seven hells, do not begin with her again. That is done. I will hear no more of it."
"She is no threat to you," Ned said. "She is a child."
"She is a Targaryen!" Robert shot back. "I will not have their kind left alive any longer."
Ned studied him. "Why would you have me as your Hand, if you will not heed my counsel?"
"Why?" Robert laughed, though there was little mirth in it. "Why not? Someone must rule these cursed kingdoms. It may as well be you."
He jabbed a thick finger toward the badge. "Put it on, Ned. It suits you. And if ever you throw it in my face again, I swear to you, I'll pin the damned thing on Jaime Lannister."
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The Poll results have been finalized. Arthur's true squire will be Edric Dayne. The future Sword of the Morning.
But as Edric is still Dondarrion's squire, I have chosen the runners-up of the poll to be Arthur's squire for now. Edric will be Arthur's squire very soon though during this war and will serve as his squire throughout the war of the five kings. Thank you to the patrons for your votes.
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