The quarrel between the King and the Hand over the matter of succession had been sharp and unpleasant. Words were raised, tempers flared, and both men departed in anger. But such a quarrel, however heated, was hardly enough to crack a friendship forged in boyhood, nor was it enough to halt the march of war that now hung over the Seven Kingdoms like a stormcloud.
By nightfall, Lady Catelyn had prodded and pressed her husband with gentle but relentless persuasion. Eddard Stark, weary and still simmering with irritation, finally relented. Taking a bottle of wine under his arm, he entered the King's tent. Before long, the laughter of two old friends—boisterous, unrestrained, and half-drunken—rolled out into the darkness. The entire camp heard it, and with that laughter, the rift dissolved.
The next morning, the royal army continued its southward march.
But it was not the first force to head south. Days earlier, Eddard Stark had quietly dispatched nearly a thousand men to the Neck—six to seven hundred of them archers. When word of the Lannisters' movements reached him, he acted swiftly, sending the force to Moat Cailin, the ancient gateway between the North and the South.
Moat Cailin had guarded the North for thousands of years, a fortress placed in the middle of the treacherous swamps of the Neck. Narrow causeways snaked through the bogs, the only routes large armies could use to pass. For invaders, there was only one path into the North, and Moat Cailin stood over it like a silent, unforgiving sentinel.
Unless, of course, one had the alliance of House Reed.
The crannogmen alone knew hidden paths and channels untouched by any map—the safe islands among the bogs, the only waterways deep enough to traverse, and the trails that shifted with the seasons. But the bonds between House Reed and House Stark ran too deep for the Reeds to ever betray the North, making such an alliance impossible for the Lannisters.
Eddard had sent his forces there immediately after the first whispers of war. The Lannisters had made their opening move; King Robert and Eddard Stark were now required to make theirs.
A week passed after the army set out. The massive host continued its march down the King's Road, accelerating its pace as it crossed the Hundred Blades River and entered the lands of the First Men.
Before dawn on the seventh day, King Robert himself arrived at Ned's tent and ordered the guards to wake him.
Eddard opened his eyes with difficulty. A month of endless labor had worn him down to the bone. Age, he thought grimly, was beginning to take what youth had freely granted him. His body no longer supplied the inexhaustible strength it once did.
The world outside was dark—silent, grey, and cold in the lingering hours before morning. Roused too early, Ned emerged from the tent stiff-limbed and half stumbling, the chill air biting into his skin.
The southern climate was far warmer than Winterfell's frozen winds, yet the breath of dawn was still cold enough to clear the fog from his mind. When he lifted his gaze, he saw not snow, nor the bare patches of grass that sometimes broke through the white sheets of the North. Instead, he saw a saddled horse waiting for him.
And on another horse beside it sat the King.
Robert Baratheon, wrapped in a heavy hooded fur cloak that made him resemble a massive brown bear atop a charger, gripped his reins with thick leather gloves. He exhaled, white mist hissing from his mouth.
"Stark, up!" he shouted, his voice booming through the cold air. "Wake yourself! We have matters of state—serious matters!"
Seeing Robert's expression, Ned understood immediately that this was no drunken whim.
"Yes, Your Grace," he replied, rubbing at his face. "Come inside the tent. We may speak there."
Erlin, the guard who had shaken Ned awake, lifted the tent flap.
But Robert shook his head vigorously. "No, no, no," he muttered, breath steaming. "There are too many idle ears in this camp. I trust walls even less than I trust courtiers."
His gaze swept over the sprawling encampment—the tents, the banners, the hundreds upon hundreds of men. "Besides," he said, "I want to ride. I've seen your snow for long enough. Let me see fresher northern sights than camp dust and snoring soldiers."
Only then did Ned notice the figure standing behind Robert—Karl Stone, the King's bastard son. Behind him, a dozen cloaked riders sat upon their horses, unmistakably the men of the Blackstone Company.
Ever since the recent assassination attempt, Robert had dismissed the guards he originally brought and, in a fit of temper, appointed Karl and his mercenaries as his personal escort for the march south. Ned had chosen not to comment on that particular decision. Kings, after all, had their tempers—and their pride.
Realizing he had little choice, Ned sighed. He changed quickly, armed himself, and mounted his horse. His trust in his own bannermen remained unshaken, but clearly, the King felt otherwise.
Robert's insistence—and the secrecy—made it clear that whatever he intended to say was important.
The King galloped ahead, his black warhorse eating the distance. Ned followed at a slower pace, trying to catch Robert's attention.
"What matter pulls you from your bed at this hour?" he called.
But the northern wind snatched the words away, and Robert did not answer.
Ned fell silent, riding through the waking mist.
They eventually veered off the King's Road, plunging into an expanse of empty plains where the fog lay thick. Karl, riding behind, saw this and immediately slowed his mount.
"Hold back!" he called to Jon Snow, Kesi, Hall, and the other men riding behind. "Give the King and the Hand space! We do not intrude on their business."
They obeyed, falling into a looser formation behind the two leaders, riding at a respectful distance.
Only when the King and the Hand reached a low ridge did they slow their pace.
Karl surveyed the terrain with a veteran's eye. Then, raising his voice, he gave crisp orders: "Spread out! I want no one within a mile of His Grace—not even rabbits!"
"And Jon—stay with me."
The Blackstone mercenaries, despite their occasional roughness and unreliability in ordinary moments, became sharp and disciplined whenever Karl commanded. They fanned out immediately, forming a protective ring.
Karl watched until each man vanished into the mist. Satisfied, he turned back toward the ridge.
By now, the camp was several miles behind them.
On the ridge, Ned Stark dismounted, pulling his cloak closer as he joined Robert.
"Karl is well trained," Ned said, glancing down at the mercenaries arranging themselves below. "This was not a whim, then."
Robert threw back his hood and let out a booming laugh, his breath turning to thick steam in the cold. Praise for his bastard son pleased him more than praise for himself.
"That boy crossed the sea at thirteen, alone, with nothing but his wits," Robert said proudly. "Managed not to get himself sold into slavery, managed to make something of himself. Don't underestimate him, Stark. There's steel in him."
Ned nodded. "I see that."
Robert exhaled slowly, his expression shifting from pride to something more weighted, more serious.
"We are alone now," he said. "No ears, no spies."
Robert turned away from the ridge, staring into the grey morning mist stretching before them.
"Ned… there is something I have not been able to say in the council. Not in camp. Not even last night."
His voice softened.
"Because if I speak it aloud where others might hear, it could destroy this kingdom."
Ned stiffened.
"What is it, Your Grace?"
Robert drew in a long breath.
"Something is wrong in my House, Ned. And I fear the rot runs deeper than even you suspect."
He turned, meeting Ned's eyes.
"And only you… only my oldest friend… can hear what I am about to say."
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