"Come, Eddard."
Eddard's sleepiness had not yet faded when his attendants knocked on his door, informing him that the King was waiting.
When Eddard arrived at the stables, his horse was already saddled, and the King was mounted. Robert wore thick brown gloves and a heavy fur-lined cloak, looking like a great brown bear atop his horse.
"Wake up, Stark!" Robert roared. "Wake up! We have matters of state to discuss."
"As you command, Your Grace. Should we head to the council chamber?" Eddard suggested.
"Forget it! I hate those chairs, I hate those long tables, and in the castle there are far too many ears." Robert's breath steamed in the cold morning air. "We ride outside. I've always wanted to see more of your Northern wilderness. Gods, though—it's too bloody cold here."
"This is the North," Eddard said helplessly. Only Starks could endure the Long Winter without complaint. Guiding their people through it was their duty.
Robert spurred his black warhorse forward, galloping wildly. Eddard had no choice but to follow. When he fully woke, he noticed that two Kingsguard and a dozen men-at-arms followed at a measured distance—Ser Boros Blount and Ser Meryn Trant.
Eddard said nothing, but he observed. He was not familiar with these two White Knights. He knew Ser Barristan the Bold, fearless and honorable, and of course Jaime Lannister, whose kingslaying tainted the order. Since he would soon be serving in King's Landing, Eddard watched carefully.
Ser Boros was an ugly, broad-chested man with short, bowed legs, a flattened nose, sagging cheeks, and a mess of graying hair. His thick white velvet and snow-white armor were fastened with a golden lion brooch set with red gems.
Ser Meryn kept his eyes down, his rust-colored mustache stiff across his mouth. His armor was more ornate—fine white scale mail threaded with gold, a high-crested helm shaped like a golden sun, and polished plate covering knees, throat, gauntlets, and boots. His heavy wool cloak was clasped with yet another golden lion.
"Lions. All lions," Eddard thought. Such decoration was no coincidence. Only House Lannister flaunted golden lions so lavishly. And a more troubling suspicion formed: these two pledged more loyalty to Casterly Rock than to the Iron Throne.
"Would Robert truly trust House Lannister this much?"
The thought unsettled him. Gold outweighed many things, too many. Counting the Kingslayer, that made three Kingsguard leaning toward the Lannisters—a dangerous imbalance.
But Robert never listened to advice on such matters, and Eddard held his tongue. Ser Barristan had already urged the King to strip Jaime of his white cloak, and Robert refused.
They rode through the Winterfell gates, hooves thundering. Once they reached the open hills outside the castle, Robert did not slow. Only when they crested a low rise did he finally stop to wait for Eddard. His face was flushed with cold and excitement.
"Damn it, Stark! This—this is living!" Robert bellowed. "Riding in the open like a real man. Plodding along like a fat ox would drive anyone mad. And Cersei's wheelhouse—gods, that groaning wooden coffin! If that damned thing breaks another axle, I swear I'll burn it and make her walk."
Eddard allowed himself a laugh. "I'd gladly light the torch for you."
"I still miss those days, you know—just the two of us, wandering knights, finding a farmer's daughter or an inn girl to warm our beds."
"That life would have been good," Eddard admitted. "But we have responsibilities now—the realm, our children, our ladies."
"You," Robert grumbled, "were never young. Except that one time… what was that girl's name?"
"Wylla," Eddard said sharply. "And I would prefer not to discuss her."
The King let it pass and continued,
"Yesterday, a letter arrived from Varys."
The eunuch's name turned Eddard's stomach. Varys had served the Mad King before Robert and now whispered to Robert himself.
Anxiety tightened Eddard's chest. He feared the letter concerned Lady Lysa's warning.
But when he read it, he exhaled. It wasn't about Lysa. It was about Gendry and Daenerys.
"Daenerys is well protected by Gendry," Eddard said, "but they are not yet wed. Should we send gifts in advance?"
"Gifts…" Robert frowned. "You missed the dangerous words there—warships, longbowmen, legions. Three legions poised to move. And these aren't wights. These are real armies."
"It is indeed concerning," Eddard agreed cautiously. But in his mind, Stannis's accusation echoed again—Cersei, her children, the golden lions among the Kingsguard. Compared to the enemies Across the Narrow Sea, were the ones inside the Red Keep the greater threat?
"Perhaps we should send a good blade instead," Robert muttered. "One man with courage is worth a thousand soldiers."
"Your Grace, they are children. One of them is even your own child. We cannot slaughter them like Tywin Lannister. When his men killed Rhaegar's little daughter, she was crying. And his infant son—just a babe—and they still tore him from his mother's arms and smashed his head against a wall."
"Children?" Robert growled. "He is not my son. He is a traitor, joining with the dragonspawn to trouble me. I don't intend to gain the title of kinslayer, so I'll only send someone to assassinate the Targaryen remnant. I need you, Ned."
"Even so," Eddard insisted, "better a fleet—an open war—than dishonorable murder. We defeated Balon Greyjoy that way."
"Heinous? Heinous?" Robert exploded. "The Mad King burned your brother and your father. Think of their screams—that was heinous! And Rhaegar—how many times did he rape your sister? Once? A hundred times?" His horse stamped as Robert shouted, face red with fury. "I will kill every last Targaryen. Wipe them out. Burn them out like dragons and piss on their ashes."
Eddard fell silent. There was no reasoning with Robert when he raged. But he forced himself to speak.
"You cannot kill a child, Robert. And victory should be honorable."
"Honorable?" Robert snorted. "Fine words. And you're willing to command a fleet for me. But tell me, Lord Stark—how much gold do you think lies in the royal treasury?"
"How much?" Eddard asked, bracing himself.
"Three million dragons in debt—or five or six, I forget. You know I hate counting coppers." Robert spread his hands. "So what choice do I have? Assassins are cheaper. Mustering fleets and armies would drain what's left. How long would I have to wait?"
The cold wind bit Eddard's face, but the number chilled him far more.
Five million in debt.
Had all the gold and silver hoarded by the Mad King truly vanished?
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