"As I said, you were utterly betrayed by King Robert. The king is dead, leaving you in a quagmire. Why not consider yourself? The Stark are not the Queen Regent's most hated; the Queen Regent's most hated are the three storms, and the Queen Regent is most worried about her children. Stannis is an iron fist, Renly is a silk glove, and The Boy Blacksmith is a combination of both... I once thought Stannis was the most formidable, a skilled warrior who would never show mercy, and upright. But now someone even more ruthless has emerged, and you just happened to provide The Boy Blacksmith with a solid claim. No one in the world is more terrifying than such a person, as brave as King Robert, and as ruthless as Littlefinger... These three are all raising armies, taking advantage of the Queen Regent's desperate need for the North to return. Give her some time and strength; let Lord Tywin deal with The Boy Blacksmith, and let the Queen Regent deal with Stannis."
"But the throne rightfully belongs to Robert's legitimate heir. The crown belongs to him," Eddard said.
"You truly have a good heart, to pledge loyalty to someone who wants you dead. Both Robert and his son have treated you this way, tying you to their war chariot, yet you are still willing. Think of poor Miss Sansa, how many times has she pleaded for you?"
"I cannot serve Cersei," Eddard looked at Varys, his heart as hard as iron. This man was indeed glib, but it seemed to be merely a rehash of old stories.
"You should serve the king, make your son lay down his weapons, honor Joffrey as king, and denounce the three storms as the true, ungrateful rebels," Varys said.
"Who exactly are you, and who exactly are you serving?"
Varys smiled faintly, "I serve the realm. And the realm needs peace. Think about it, my Lord, the Queen Regent should still come to see you."
"Then what good are my vows?" Eddard said. "I am no clown; I once made vows to my old friend. I am not an empty suit of armor."
"So you don't even care about your daughter anymore?" Varys asked. "I remember Rhaegar's daughter, what a lovely little girl. In the game of power, why are these Children always the ones who suffer? I brought you wine; the next one might bring you a pardon and delicacies, or else it will be Miss Sansa's red-haired head."
"Shut up, get out!" Eddard roared, tears in his eyes. The next time, they might bring Miss Sansa's head?
Perhaps it was a pleading Sansa. But, but he couldn't forget Robert's eyes.
"Hmph! Lord Hand, it seems you alone must choose your own destiny." Varys turned and left.
Eddard felt the wine taking hold; he couldn't distinguish between the black attire and dreams, so he lay down on the bed, feeling drowsy.
In the darkness, memories quietly assailed his heart, vivid as a dream. That year was the "false spring," and Eddard was eighteen again, accompanying Jon and Robert down from The Eyrie, traveling to Harrenhal for the Tourney.
Eddard saw green grass, smelled pollen in the wind. Warm days, cool nights, the sweet scent of wine. He remembered Brandon's laugh, remembered Robert's wild ferocity in the melee, remembered Robert laughing as he hacked and slashed, knocking opponents off their horses one by one. He also remembered the golden-haired youth Jaime Lannister, clad in white scale armor, kneeling on the grass before the king's tent, swearing to protect King Aerys. After the oath, Ser Oswell Whent helped Jaime to his feet, and the lord commander of the kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, The White Bull, personally fastened the Kingsguard's snowy white cloak on him. All six Kingsguards were present, welcoming their newly joined brother.
The Tourney lasted ten days, but in the crucial joust, only Rhaegar Targaryen stole the show. The Crown Prince's armor that year was no different from the day he would later die in battle: gleaming black plate, with a three-headed dragon of rubies on his chest, his house sigil. He rode his horse, a crimson ribbon flowing behind him, and no Longspear could touch him. Brandon was unhorsed by him, as was Bronze Yohn Royce, and even Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, was no exception.
When the Crown Prince unhorsed Ser Barristan in the final tilt and rode around the arena, preparing to receive the victor's crown, Robert was in his final struggle with Jon and old Lord Hunter. Eddard remembered Rhaegar Targaryen riding past his wife—Princess Elia of House Martell of Dorne—and placing the Queen of Love and Beauty's crown on Lyanna's lap. The moment the smiles vanished from the faces of all the spectators remains vivid in his memory; it was a crown woven from winter Roses, blue as frost.
Eddard reached for the flower crown, but sharp thorns were hidden beneath the pale blue petals. The sharp, cruel thorns tore at his skin, and he watched blood slowly trickle down his fingers.
"Eddard, promise me," his sister whispered to him from her bloody bed. She had loved the scent of winter Roses most in life.
But the scene quickly shifted, becoming Miss Sansa pleading with him incessantly, Kingsguards tearing at his daughter's clothes, beating Miss Sansa with whips and sword scabbards. His daughter cried, her eyes blurred with tears.
"No!" Eddard woke with a start, the darkness surrounding him, tears welling up again.
"Gods, please save me. Heavenly Gods above, I have made enough mistakes. Look at what I have sacrificed for my vows."
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