His friend's roar dragged Eddard back from his thoughts once more.
Robert had finally quenched his thirst and caught his breath. Time to resume the torment.
"Then…" Robert heaved himself up from the chair. "Lancel! Armor. And you, Kingslayer—get ready."
"Always, Your Grace."
"Hah. How could I forget." Baratheon gave a bitter snort. "You're quite good at killing crowned men."
The knight only smiled that false, courteous smile and said nothing.
"But today you'll hold back. This is sparring, Ser. Blood if it happens, nothing more."
"Nothing more," Jaime echoed, wearing the same smile Eddard had seen only on the faces of royal heirs—the kind that never promised anything good.
Robert's legendary armor no longer fit. The smiths had been forced to remake it, and the rush job had cost a small fortune…
That was the day Eddard had truly seen Gendry. He had even invited the boy—whose parentage he no longer doubted—to join his own household guard.
The lad had said he first needed to finish his own armor. Once it was done, he would report at once.
"Lancel! You useless, hell-bound little shit…"
Robert cursed with every foul word he knew. Decorum had never suited him.
The queen's cousin never received a scrap of respect from the king.
Yet even the longest winter ends.
Lancel finally managed—clumsily—to buckle the king into his plate.
The fully armored monarch and the man whose hands still carried the blood of his predecessor began their duel.
In that moment Eddard witnessed once again just how terrifying Tywin Lannister's eldest son truly was.
Ser Jaime danced aside from Robert's furious swings with effortless grace, turning every strength into weakness, every opening into a trap.
Robert wanted a killing blow?
Jaime simply stepped away.
Robert charged?
Jaime slashed at his legs, broke his rhythm, waited for the next mistake.
The Baratheon rage was useless against an opponent at the absolute peak of his power.
Robert's sword touched the Kingsguard's armor perhaps twice. Jaime struck the king as regularly as the sun rose over the Red Keep.
The winner of this bout—much as Eddard hated to admit it—was the Kingslayer.
Yet Jaime was in no hurry.
He toyed with the king, refusing to end the miserable display.
Instead he targeted every joint and weak point in Robert's armor, determined to make the monarch suffer.
Eddard saw it clearly: the Lannister was taking revenge for earlier humiliations, paying back every insult with bruises, impacts, scrapes, and cuts.
The struggle between lion and stag lasted more than seven minutes.
Until Ser Jaime finally decided to finish it in his own way.
A single crushing blow—worthy of the king in his prime—sent Robert's sword flying from his hand. Jaime flicked the blade away with the toe of his boot toward his cousin Lancel, then leveled his own steel at the king's throat.
"You are dead, Your Grace," Ser Barristan stated calmly. "Sheathe your sword, Jaime."
Lancel obeyed at once… but the expression on the boy's face was all wrong.
It was the same look Joffrey wore whenever he was denied something he wanted.
"Enough. Stop." Robert panted, ripping off his helm and hurling it aside. "Well done, Kingslayer.
Ugh… at least you're on my side, you bastard."
The man who had just mocked his king still offered a perfectly courteous bow.
Robert had no strength left to care about such details. All he wanted was rest.
Barristan ordered Lancel to tend the king, then pulled Jaime aside to review the bout.
Even from the balcony Eddard could hear the old knight giving his sworn brother quiet advice, pointing out small flaws in the victor's technique.
Jaime did not argue. He simply nodded.
Did this family understand respect after all—beyond violence and pride?
Or had beating Robert put him in such a good mood that he felt generous?
Lord Stark's gaze drifted back to the king and his squire.
The boy circled Robert, trying to help remove the crushing weight of steel.
In the old days his friend would have laughed and joked after a fight. Now he lacked even the breath to curse the queen's cousin.
He simply stood gasping in the center of the yard, struggling to steady his breathing.
It was bad… but better than a month ago.
Back then the king could only last a few minutes. Perhaps by the time the armies gathered Robert would truly be ready.
Lannister helped with the armor, yet his movements were clumsy, more hindrance than help.
Still, piece by piece the plate came off until only the iron boots remained.
For some reason the queen's cousin stopped there.
The young man stood frozen in the middle of the yard like a post, staring at his king.
Eddard could not see the squire's face, but he read the shock and disgust clearly on Robert's.
"What the fuck are you stopping for?" Exhaustion kept Robert from shouting, but the venom was still there. "Does the warrior have to finish the job himself? He has better things to do than undress an old drunk."
In that instant everything fell into the seventh hell.
Lancel gave no answer.
Instead he moved with shocking speed, bending to snatch up the sword Jaime had kicked away—the one still lying in the dust.
The boy ignored everything around him, gripped the blade, and turned toward Robert.
One strike—precise, deadly.
Battle-forged steel punched through white tunic and flesh alike.
Lancel drove the sword deep enough to reach vital organs.
Eddard no longer remembered how he reached the yard.
All he saw was the utter astonishment on Robert's face as the king stared down at the blade buried in his belly. With his final strength Robert slammed a fist into Lancel's face, hurling the boy several yards away to land flat on his back.
Then Robert, after standing for a few impossible seconds, crashed to the ground.
Eddard raced down from the balcony like a storm wind and was at his friend's side in heartbeats.
His old leg wound screamed in protest, threatening to tear open, but he felt nothing.
On the blood-soaked yard lay the dying king… his friend… his Robert.
Lord Stark dropped beside him, ignoring Lancel now pinned by Barristan and Jaime, deaf to the terrified screams of the servants.
"Now…" Robert forced the words out with his last breath, "it's over… gods… how fucking… embarrassing."
"Hush, Your Grace." Eddard spoke quickly, desperate to deny the truth before his eyes. "I've already sent for Pycelle. He'll be here any moment…"
"Let me go, Jaime!" A hysterical shriek rose from somewhere. "What is this? Ser Barristan…"
"Let them all go to hell… and everything else…" The king gave a ragged groan. "Ned, I name you regent for Joffrey. Protect my children… and these… these Seven Kingdoms. Remember what I told you about that dragon whelp."
"I didn't kill him! This is madness! I… killed the king?! No!"
"Promise me, Ned." They ignored the screaming assassin. "Swear you'll protect my children."
"Yes, Your Grace… yes, Robert."
A miracle of a smile touched the king's face for the last time.
Then his eyes closed forever.
In a life that had not been especially long, Eddard Stark had now suffered this heart-shattering loss for the second time.
Another precious, beloved soul had died in his arms. Another crushing burden had been dropped onto his shoulders.
And once again Eddard had been powerless to save the dying.
Everything after that became a blurred nightmare.
Lord Stark remembered only the most terrible fragments: how Barristan and Jaime dragged the assassin to the dungeons while the boy screamed his innocence; how Grand Maester Pycelle's trembling old voice announced the king's death; and how Cersei Lannister demanded an immediate small council meeting.
Eddard dragged his broken body to the throne room only to witness another farce.
The queen demanded her son be crowned at once, that she be named full regent, and that all preparations for the eastern war be halted immediately.
She declared in open court that the Riverlands were already in flames and there was no need to waste strength on a dead man's delusions.
When Eddard read Robert's dying wish aloud, every voice rose in opposition.
Ser Barristan confirmed he had heard the king's command, yet Ser Jaime—standing at the queen's side—flatly denied it, swearing to the council that Robert had never spoken of a regency.
The conflicting testimony allowed Cersei to do exactly as she pleased.
She said nothing about the murderous squire. She offered no word of condemnation for her father's pillaging in the Riverlands.
She had only one demand.
A coronation. The sooner the better.
Eddard, Lord Renly, and Ser Barristan pleaded with her to wait at least long enough for a proper royal funeral.
Cersei refused to listen.
Only a hasty coronation could satisfy the woman who would not even mourn her husband.
She offered a few empty promises of a full investigation and justice.
But her tone told Eddard everything: it was all a lie.
Lancel was already dead. Of that he was certain.
Dozens of witnesses had seen the boy strike with calm, deliberate intent. No defense, no name, could save him.
The law allowed only one punishment for such a crime.
Yet even the most just vengeance, the most satisfying revenge, could never fill the hole grief had torn in his chest.
Another hole.
Now Eddard sat alone in the Tower of the Hand, listening to the funeral bells toll from the Great Sept of Baelor, yet hearing nothing at all.
His leg wound had worsened. The horror of the day had shattered what little strength remained.
He had lost his best and dearest friend. Once again he had watched helplessly as tragedy unfolded.
Worse, the killing had no reason.
Eddard understood Lyanna's death. But what force had driven Lancel Lannister to such madness?
In broad daylight, before two of the finest Kingsguard, to openly assassinate the king?
There had never been affection between him and Cersei—Ned had seen that clearly even in the North.
Yet why did Cersei now openly defy law and custom, even the rites of burial?
Why had the Kingslayer lied so brazenly, then called upon the gods with feigned piety?
Why had Robert's sword been lying so conveniently close to the assassin…
The only small comfort—if it could even be called comfort—was Cersei's announcement that the new king required a new small council.
It meant he and his daughters could finally go home.
Leave this place. Leave this South that had stolen so many good lives and crushed every scrap of justice.
In this moment of grief Lord Stark had no strength left to think of anything else.
The untouched wine sat beside him. His thoughts drifted endlessly through shadows.
The door opened. The new captain of his guard, Fat Tom, stepped inside.
"My lord, I—"
"I said I was not to be disturbed," Eddard snapped, making no effort to hide his irritation.
"Lord Stannis sent a man," Fat Tom answered quickly. "Says it's most urgent, and—"
"Send him in."
Stannis… He should have been sailing for Dragonstone. Yet the reclusive lord had sent someone first.
"He says he'll speak only with you, my lord."
"Then let him in and get out!"
The man who followed Fat Tom wore a black cloak pulled tight around him. The moment the guard left, the stranger lowered his hood, revealing a weathered commoner's face and hair that had once been chestnut and was now streaked with gray.
A hard, practical man used to bearing hardship.
"You…?"
"Davos… Ser Davos Seaworth." The man corrected softly.
Eddard had heard the name.
A former smuggler who had saved Robert's brother from starvation and been knighted for it.
Some said the Onion Knight was trusted more than Stannis's own bannermen—even more than his wife.
"You don't look like an ordinary envoy, Ser Davos."
"I came in secret," the man admitted frankly. "King Stannis still has a few friends inside the Red Keep."
"Our king is Joffrey Baratheon…"
Eddard no longer had the strength or the will to protest or show surprise.
At least that was what he told himself.
"Stannis is the true king. Joffrey is no Baratheon. Look for yourself, Lord Hand." Seaworth held out a rolled parchment. "I know what the dead meant to you, but we must think of the living now."
The seal on the letter was indeed that of Lord Stannis of Dragonstone… or rather, King Stannis.
Gods… in this cursed South they would not even grant a man a moment's quiet grief!
"I heard the bells and knew I was too late, no matter how fast I sailed," Davos said quietly. "They have struck the first blow, but you still have the power to stop the second."
"What are you talking about?"
"Read it, Lord Hand. My king writes more clearly than I speak." The unexpected guest gave a small nod. "I'm no good with words, but if anything confuses you I can explain."
With a heavy, fateful heart, Lord Eddard Stark slowly unrolled the parchment.