With the departure of Ned and Robert, the hubbub in the courtyard sank into an eerie silence.
Lynn leaned back into the shadow of a pillar, watching the two figures disappear down the entrance of the crypts.
One was his nominal sovereign.
The other was his temporary protector.
Between those two men was a bond of brothers and brothers-in-arms.
And both were stepping straight into an abyss.
The smile on Queen Cersei Lannister’s face had long since vanished, leaving her eyes burning with rage.
She stared toward the crypts.
Her gaze looked fierce enough to burn that dark entryway into ashes.
Jaime Lannister stood beside her with a careless, easy smile.
He patted the Queen’s tense shoulder with a gloved hand, his gesture overly intimate and ambiguous.
“My dear sister, why work yourself up over a dead woman?” His voice was low, laced with mockery.
“A king must be allowed a few harmless eccentricities.” Cersei said nothing.
She merely withdrew her gaze, her cold eyes sweeping across the courtyard before coming to rest on the Stark children.
Particularly Sansa.
…
The steps leading into the crypts were wet and slick with melted snow.
Yet inside, the crypts were always warm, heated by the hot springs beneath Winterfell.
Ned and Robert walked among the dead of House Stark, their footsteps echoing through the subterranean hall.
Torchlight flickered along the narrow passage, casting their shadows long and twisted against the stone walls.
The air smelled heavily of dust and cold.
Robert Baratheon said nothing, breathing heavily as he walked.
His massive, bloated frame looked clumsy on the narrow stone stairs.
Ned followed behind him in equal silence.
He could feel the suffocating weight of emotion radiating from the King.
It was not the majesty of a sovereign ruling the Seven Kingdoms.
It was a heavy, crushing grief.
They passed row upon row of Stark ancestors—cold stone statues holding iron swords across their knees, watching the living in silent judgment.
Soon, the two men stopped before three sarcophagi standing side by side.
The central effigy was Ned’s father, Lord Rickard Stark, sitting with solemn dignity, stone fingers wrapped tightly around the sword resting across his lap.
Beside him lay his children.
To one side was Ned’s elder brother, Brandon.
To the other was his sister, Lyanna, who had died at just sixteen.
Now, of that generation, only Ned’s younger brother Benjen remained alive.
Robert knelt before Lord Rickard’s stone image, bowing his head respectfully before standing up again.
“Jon Arryn is dead.” Robert’s voice suddenly broke the suffocating silence.
Ned paused for a moment.
“I know, Your Grace.” Robert turned around.
The torchlight lit half his face, revealing eyes bloodshot with vein and fury.
“I loved that man,” Robert said.
“I don’t know how he died, but I know the men around me are all vipers, Ned.
Liars, cowards, and flattering parasites.
I can trust none of them.” Robert’s gaze pinned Ned on the spot.
“I want you to be my Hand.” It was no request.
It was a command.
Ned’s heart sank sharply.
He thought of Catelyn’s worries, of the peaceful years in Winterfell, and of his children.
He wanted to refuse.
Falling to his knees, he tried to demur gently.
“Your Grace…
I am a man of the North.
I do not belong in the south.” “Listen to me, Ned,” Robert stepped forward, his massive shadow completely engulfing him.
“I’m not here to ask your permission.
I need a man I can trust at my back.
In all the Seven Kingdoms, you are the only one left I trust.
As for me?
I want to eat, drink, and whore myself into an early grave!
Damn it, Ned, stand up when you speak to me!” Robert hauled Ned back to his feet.
“You helped me win that bloody iron chair; you’d better help me hold it.
We were meant to rule together.
Our houses were meant to be joined by blood, if only your sister Lyanna had lived.
But it’s not too late.
I have a son, and you have a daughter.
They will bring our families together at last.” Ned averted his eyes.
“And Jon’s son…” Robert waved his hand dismissively.
“The boy is six years old!
Let him inherit the Eyrie and be done with it!” Ned was startled.
House Arryn had held the title of Warden of the East for generations.
It was supposed to be a hereditary office.
Robert explained, “How can a six-year-old child be Warden of the East?
He can’t lead men into battle.
If it bothers you so much, we can give it back to him in a few years when he grows up!” Hearing Robert lay it out so plainly, Ned knew the King had already decided the fate of House Arryn.
And likely his own as well.
A royal command could not be defied.
“I obey your command, Your Grace,” Ned said softly.
Robert scowled, irritated.
“Damn it, Ned, stop calling me ‘Your Grace.’ Say it again and I’ll strike you down myself!” Ned let out a helpless, bitter smile.
With the tension broken, the sorrow on Robert’s face softened slightly, replaced by a deep exhaustion.
The King turned to face another statue.
Lyanna Stark.
The sculptor had done fine work, capturing her youthful beauty and freezing it forever in stone.
Even the cold granite could not mute the wild spirit and fierce beauty unique to the North.
Robert reached out.
The giant hand that had once swung a warhammer now trembled slightly.
With rough fingertips, he gently stroked Lyanna’s cold, stone cheek.
“Why did you have to put her in a place like this?
She belonged under the open sky, with the wind and the sun…” “Ned…
I still dream at night,” Robert murmured, his voice as faint as a sigh.
“In my dreams, I kill him over and over again.
Rhaegar.
I smash through his fancy armor with my hammer and shatter every bone in his body.
Again…
and again.” In the crypts, only the crackle of the burning torches filled the air.
“You already killed him, Your Grace,” Ned reminded him softly.
“Did I?” Robert withdrew his hand, the grief on his face instantly morphing into an all-consuming hatred.
“It wasn’t enough!
As long as a single Targaryen lives, I cannot sleep soundly!” His voice spiked, echoing violently through the stone hall.
“That Viserys!
And his sister, Daenerys!
They’re still alive, Ned!
Hiding across the Narrow Sea, breeding like cockroaches, waiting for the day to come back and steal everything from me!” A mad fire flared in Robert’s eyes.
“I want them dead.
I want the Targaryen name wiped from the face of the world!” A deep chill rose from the soles of Ned’s feet, sweeping through his limbs in an instant—colder than the bitterest northern wind.
Kill innocent children?
It went against every standard of honor and duty he lived by.
He parted his lips, wanting to protest.
But Robert glared at him fiercely.
“Have you forgotten?!” “The Mad King roasted your father alive!
He put Brandon in a choking collar right in front of the pyre!
Every time your father screamed, your brother strangled himself trying to reach his sword to save him!
The louder your father screamed, the harder Brandon pulled, until he choked himself to death before your father even died!” “The lords were forced to watch!
The cowards dared not speak, and the loyal men who raised their voices were slaughtered or exiled on the spot!” “Ned!” “Have you forgotten all of it?!” Looking into Robert’s face, twisted with rage, every word of protest in Ned’s throat withered away into silence.