When Eddard Stark first mentioned the idea, Robert Baratheon froze—not in outrage, nor in amusement, but in something far more troubling.
Uncertainty.
Robert Baratheon was a man who prided himself on decisiveness. He charged into battle before others drew breath. He drank before thinking, fought before questioning. But succession—his heir—was something he had avoided confronting for years.
So when Ned raised the subject, Robert didn't immediately lash out. Instead, he turned to his Hand, seeking an answer he couldn't admit he needed.
At first, Ned Stark had simply been teasing—lighthearted banter to ease the King's mood as they overlooked the training ground where Karl Stone was drilling Jon Snow. But when Robert didn't laugh… when the King actually asked his opinion… the smile faded from Ned's face.
A heavy silence grew between them.
Ned's eyes drifted instinctively toward Karl—the King's Bastard—moving with surprising grace as he corrected Jon Snow's stance. Watching those two young men, swords clashing lightly in mock combat, Ned felt a knot twist within him.
Duty warred with affection. Honor battled compassion.
He had thought of this matter before—of course he had. As Robert's Hand, Ned was responsible for the stability of the realm. And nothing threatened that stability more than a King without a legitimate heir.
Especially now.
Stannis's letters had spread across the Seven Kingdoms like a cold wind, carrying with them the accusation everyone whispered but feared to speak aloud: Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen—none of them Baratheons.
The King's bloodline—his claim to the Iron Throne—was suddenly fragile.
And history proved what happened in such moments.
The Dance of the Dragons had erupted over a disputed succession, even though an heir existed. The mere question of legitimacy had plunged Westeros into flame and ruin.
So what would happen now, if Robert had no rightful heir at all?
Ned's earlier teasing suddenly felt like a blade he had foolishly unsheathed. The King's lack of denial, his quiet contemplation, confirmed a terrible truth:
Robert had indeed thought about legitimizing Karl Stone.
And Ned Stark—honorable, rigid, unyielding Ned—felt his heart sink.
"Your Majesty…" he began slowly, voice taut, "as your Hand, I must advise you to consider this matter with the greatest seriousness."
His eyes lowered—not out of fear of Robert, but because he couldn't bear to look at Karl again. Or at Jon Snow. Or at the future that might be forced upon both boys.
Robert's expression darkened.
"You're refusing?" the King barked. "You truly think the boy wouldn't make a better King than me?"
Ned drew a steadying breath. "I'm saying only that you must think carefully. You are the King."
The words were chosen carefully—respectful, cautious, and painfully formal.
Robert's face immediately fell. His jaw tightened, and he exploded.
"Seven hells, Ned! This—THIS—is what I hate about you!" he roared, spittle flying as he jabbed a finger toward Ned's chest. "All you self-righteous lords, always the same!"
He rounded on Ned fully now, rage igniting like wildfire.
"I suppose you want me to send the boy away, aye? Hide him somewhere far from here?" Robert mocked. "And then—then I'm to go traipsing around the Seven Kingdoms searching for some perfect woman like a blasted stud horse!"
He pointed sharply toward the south.
"I'll bring her back, strip her naked, wash her clean, and you'll all say, 'Yes, Your Grace, now breed her properly.' And I'm supposed to hump like a rutting boar until you lot get the golden-haired son you want!"
His voice rose to a shout.
"And if it's a daughter? Then this old fool must climb back on top of her again and again, year after year, while my clever lords and ladies clap their hands in approval?!"
Ned closed his eyes briefly. Robert was spiraling.
"Tell me, Ned!" Robert continued, pacing like a cornered bull. "Is that what you want as well? Should I spread my legs on command while you count how many thrusts the King performs?!"
The last words were so absurd Ned nearly flinched. But he did not speak. He knew better than to interrupt Robert mid-rant.
His silence only enraged the King further.
Robert stormed toward the window overlooking the training ground.
"And that brat," Robert growled, pointing at Karl Stone, who was correcting Jon Snow's grip on a sword hilt, "that bastard killed three of my Kingsguard. HALF the men around him! And he just dusted himself off and walked away!"
Robert slammed a fist onto the windowsill.
"And what does he do now? Nothing! He hasn't asked me for land, or gold, or titles. He just follows you around learning how to be a lord. A lord! Gods, you're not even qualified yourself!"
Ned absorbed the insult without protest. He only answered, steady and sincere:
"He will be your most loyal vassal, Your Majesty."
He paused.
"As am I."
Those words, simple and honest, broke through Robert's bluster—but only for a heartbeat. The King hesitated, his mouth opening but no argument forming.
Then anger surged back.
"Yes, yes, loyal subjects everywhere!" Robert snapped. "No traitors in this whole damned kingdom! Everyone loves their King!"
He muttered bitterly, "They all think I'm a fool."
His eyes narrowed suddenly—sharpening with suspicion.
"Or maybe you think so too, Ned?"
He turned with a vicious sneer.
"Tell me, is this your real aim? Should I marry your daughter next? What's her name again? Last time you told me she was still a little girl."
Ned stiffened—not from fear, but from deep offense.
"No," Ned said firmly. "Do not twist—"
But Robert didn't let him finish.
"Oh, I should call you Father, should I?" he snarled. "You'd like that! But I'll tell you this, Ned Stark— I will only ever love a Stark woman, and her name is not Sansa!"
His voice grew rough, trembling with an old wound.
"It is Lyanna. You know that. You've always known."
Silence settled like snowfall.
Robert's face tightened with a pain he never spoke of. Then, with a roar of frustration, he ripped off his cloak, hurled it to the ground, and stormed out of the chamber.
The door slammed so hard the walls shook.
Ned Stark remained where he stood.
For a long moment, he didn't move. He simply breathed—slow, steady, weary breaths—as if trying to calm a storm inside himself.
Finally, he walked to the window.
Below, Jon Snow and Karl Stone were looking up, confused by the noise. The two young men—two bastards of different worlds—stood side by side, sweat on their brows and swords in hand.
Seeing them, Ned felt something tighten in his chest. His eyes softened, yet grew distant.
Jon Arryn… how did you manage this man for so many years? Ned wondered silently.
Lyanna... Jon… gods forgive me…
He exhaled shakily.
Standing by that window, watching the boys below, he felt the full weight of duty settle on his shoulders once more.
For the realm.
For Robert.
For the truth.
For the children—legitimate or not.
And for the promise he had kept for so many years.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)