Fair Isle had been transformed.
The picturesque beaches and rolling green hills were now buried under a sprawling canvas city.
Tents of every color and size stretched from the rocky western cliffs down to the sheltered eastern harbor, housing the thousands of men who had just broken the Iron Fleet.
Campfires dotted the landscape, casting a flickering, orange glow against the night sky.
In the center of the encampment stood the royal pavilion. It was massive, constructed of heavy yellow and black canvas, bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of roasted meat, sweat, and spilled wine. The war council had just concluded. The various lords and captains of the vanguard had filtered out into the night, returning to their own tents to celebrate their survival and their victory.
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, was not present. He was currently marching down the Ocean Road with the rest of the royal host, expected to arrive at Lannisport and cross over to the island in a few days.
It had been decided during the council that the combined vanguard would halt their advance here. They would wait on Fair Isle until Jon Arryn, Tywin Lannister, Hoster Tully, and Mace Tyrell arrived with the bulk of the Southern armies.
Ned Stark sat in a heavy wooden chair across from the King. He was entirely satisfied with the council's decision.
In the original timeline, Ned knew the Northmen had taken the brunt of the casualties in the sieges of the Iron Islands. Not this time. Ned had brought his fleet and his elite guard to crush the Greyjoy navy and eliminate Euron. He had done his part. He had no intention of throwing Northern lives against the high stone walls of Pyke while the Lannisters and Tyrells marched in late to claim the glory and the spoils.
Let Tywin's westermen catch an axe to the face for once. Let Mace Tyrell's knights wade through the mud.
"Finally," Robert Baratheon groaned, reaching across the heavy oak table and grabbing a square bottle of clear liquid. "I thought Manderly was never going to stop talking about provisioning the fleet and counting grain sacks. The man loves the sound of his own voice."
"He loves his ledgers," Ned corrected calmly, watching Robert pour two very generous measures of Winter's Breath into ornate silver goblets. "And right now, those ledgers are keeping your army fed."
"Aye, aye," Robert grunted, sliding a goblet across the table to Ned. "Drink up. We earned it today."
Robert looked terrible, but happy. He was still covered in bruises and small cuts from the deck fighting, and he moved with a slight stiffness, but his eyes were bright. The dark humors that usually clung to him in King's Landing had vanished, washed away by the adrenaline of battle.
Robert took a large gulp of the vodka, wincing slightly at the burn before sighing in satisfaction.
"So," Robert said, wiping his beard with the back of his hand. "We wait for the old men and the fat flowers to arrive. A few days of rest. I can live with that. How are things in the frozen wastes, Ned? How is Ashara? And the pups?"
"They are well," Ned said, a genuine warmth entering his voice at the mention of his family. "Cregan is practically running the castle. Jon and Rhaenys keep him out of too much trouble. Sansa and Arya are growing fast. And Ashara..." Ned smiled. "She is going to give birth to another baby in two moons."
Robert froze, his goblet halfway to his mouth. He lowered it, his blue eyes widening.
Then, a booming, raucous laugh exploded from his chest, so loud it shook the canvas walls of the pavilion.
"Five?!" Robert roared, spilling wine as he slapped his hand on the heavy oak table. "Gods, Ned! Five pups already! The whole realm thinks you're up there building stone roads and freezing your stones off. Meanwhile, you're breeding an entire army in your bedchamber! The 'Horny Wolf', they should call you!"
"Winter is coming, Robert," Ned said dryly, taking a sip of his drink. "I need hands to shovel the snow."
Robert chuckled, shaking his head in deep amusement. "Ashara is a saint for putting up with you. Five children. Good for you, Ned. Truly."
Ned watched the humor slowly fade from Robert's eyes, replaced by a familiar, heavy shadow.
"And your family?" Ned asked quietly. "How are Cersei and the boy?"
Robert's face darkened instantly. He let out a low, bitter grumble, reaching for the bottle to refill his cup.
"Cersei," Robert spat the name. "She is a Lannister to the bone. Cold, proud, and completely insufferable. She complains about the smell of the city, she complains about my drinking, she complains about the hunting." He took a heavy drink. "And she smothers the kid a bit too much."
"Joffrey?" Ned asked.
"Aye. Joffrey," Robert said, his tone devoid of any paternal warmth. "He's just a boy, but she treats him like he's made of spun glass. If he gets a scratch, she demands the heads of the servants. She's making him soft, Ned. A King can't be soft. He cries over a splinter."
Robert stared into his cup, his brow furrowed in deep frustration.
"And now she's expecting another one," Robert added, his voice flat. "Any day now. She's completely insufferable when she's with child. Keeps to her quarters, surrounds herself with those red-cloaked guards her father gave her. It doesn't even feel like my own keep."
Ned remained silent. He knew exactly what Cersei was doing, but he didn't know who exactly who fathered the children, but this was not the time or the place to tear the realm apart. He needed Robert focused on the Ironborn.
"I miss it, Ned," Robert said suddenly. His voice lost its anger, dropping into a rare, quiet vulnerability.
"Miss what?"
"The Vale," Robert said, looking up, his eyes glassy with nostalgia. "I miss our boyhood. The Eyrie. Riding through the Mountains of the Moon. Hunting with Jon Arryn before he was the Hand, back when he was just an old man trying to keep us from breaking our necks."
Robert leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face with his large hands.
"I hate King's Landing, Ned. It is a foul pit. A gilded cage full of vipers and flatterers. Everyone who looks at me wants something. A title, a coin, a piece of land, a marriage pact. They smile at me, they pour my wine, and they scheme behind my back."
Robert dropped his hands, looking directly at Ned.
"They think I don't know," Robert said, his voice surprisingly sharp. "They think I'm just a drunken fool who only wants to hunt and whore. My wife thinks I'm a lackwit. Her father thinks I'm a useful brute. Varys thinks I'm a blind man."
Robert leaned forward, pointing a thick finger at the table.
"But I know, Ned. I know exactly what everyone wants from me. I see the greed in their eyes. I just let it be. I let them think I'm a fool because it's easier. I do what I want. I drink, I ride, I fight when someone gives me an excuse. And I let Jon Arryn take care of the rest. He wanted the peace. He can manage the vultures."
Ned looked at his friend. It was a tragic admission. Robert wasn't blind to the corruption of his court; he was just entirely defeated by it. He had won the throne to avenge a woman he loved, and now he was stuck sitting on it, surrounded by people he despised.
"You are the King, Robert," Ned said softly. "You have the power to change the court. Send them away. Bring in honest men."
"There are no honest men in the South, Ned," Robert laughed bitterly. "Only you. And you ran back to the snow the first chance you got. Don't blame you. I would have run too."
Robert grabbed the square bottle of vodka again. He didn't bother with the goblet this time. He uncorked it and took a long, sustained gulp directly from the glass. He slammed it down, wiping his mouth, his face flushed.
"Gods, this is good," Robert sighed, his mood shifting rapidly back to boisterous appreciation. "I have to thank you for this, Ned. This drink. It's the only good thing in my life some days."
He tapped the thick glass bottle.
"I wouldn't pass a day without drinking it now. Your whiskey, your brandy, your vodka. They are magnificent. The Arbor can keep their sour grapes. I drink at least one of your Northern spirits every single day. It burns the rot right out of my stomach."
Ned allowed a small, dry smile to touch his lips. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.
"Robert," Ned deadpanned. "You wouldn't pass a day without drinking, regardless. If I handed you a puddle of fermented swamp water from the Neck, you'd find an excuse to toast with it."
Robert paused, looking offended for exactly one second before letting out a booming laugh.
"You're entirely right!" Robert agreed loudly. "But at least your swamp water tastes like fire!"
He grabbed the bottle again.
"To the North!" Robert toasted to the empty tent, raising the bottle high. "And to the wolves who know how to brew!"
"To the King," Ned replied politely, raising his silver goblet and taking a small sip.
They sat together for hours. The conversation drifted away from the heavy burdens of the crown and the dark secrets of the court.
They talked about the melee at Harrenhal, about the girls they had chased in Gulltown, and about the time Robert had gotten his horse stuck in a mud pit near the Bloody Gate.
Robert drank with a relentless, punishing pace. He finished the vodka and moved on to a cask of heavy stout a servant had left in the corner. He grew louder, his stories more exaggerated, his laughter more frequent.
By the third hour past midnight, Robert's stories began to slur together. His massive head nodded forward, his chin hitting his chest. He jerked awake, muttered a curse about Tywin Lannister, and took one final, massive gulp of stout.
Then, his eyes rolled back. Robert slumped forward, his face landing squarely on his crossed arms on the heavy oak table. Within seconds, a loud, rattling snore began to echo in the pavilion.
The King had been defeated by the cup.
Ned sat in silence for a moment, listening to the deep breathing of the most powerful man in the world. He felt a pang of sympathy for his old friend. Robert had conquered a continent, but he was entirely trapped by his own victory.
Ned stood up. He walked around the table and picked up a heavy fur mantle that had been discarded on a nearby chair. He draped it carefully over Robert's broad shoulders, making sure the King would not wake up shivering in the night air.
"Sleep well, Robert," Ned whispered.
He picked up his sword belt from the chair, buckling it around his waist. He walked to the entrance of the pavilion and pushed the heavy canvas flap aside.
The night air of Fair Isle hit him instantly. It was cool, carrying the sharp, clean scent of the ocean and the faint smell of burning wood from the dying campfires. The camp was silent now, the thousands of soldiers resting for the bloodshed to come.
Ned took a deep breath, filling his lungs. He didn't feel the crushing weight of politics or the suffocating atmosphere of the court. He felt the cold, hard reality of the world, and he welcomed it.
He walked through the quiet camp, his boots making no sound on the soft grass, heading toward his own modest tent. He had a war to finish, a fleet to command, and a growing pack waiting for him in the snow.
The South could have their games. The Wolf was going to finish this hunt and go home.