(POV: Third Person — Red Keep, King's Solar, Midmorning)
King Robert sat slouched in his chair, the light from the window glinting off the crown that lay, as always, neglected on the table beside him. The morning wine had not yet reached his system, and his mood, though dulled, was steady. Across from him, Jon Arryn stood as always—hands behind his back, grave and quiet.
Steffon Baratheon stood between them, a sealed scroll in hand. His voice, when he spoke, was calm. Deliberate.
"I've completed a full review of the Grand Maester's correspondence. Pycelle has been in regular contact with Lord Tywin, even in matters not touching the West. He's also advised against Crown policy that threatened Lannister coin or influence—twice in the last year alone."
Robert scratched at his beard. "He's old. Likes the sound of his own voice, aye. But treason?"
"Not treason," Steffon replied. "But allegiance. Pycelle serves Tywin's interests before the Crown's. Always has."
Jon said nothing, but his expression tightened. He had suspected as much, though not in detail.
Robert leaned forward slightly, annoyed but not surprised. "He's been Grand Maester since Aerys. Can't trust anyone who served that mad bastard so long without flinching. Fine. You want him gone?"
"I want him replaced," Steffon said. "There are names at the Citadel—archmaesters who never swore fealty to noble houses. I've made discreet inquiries. I'll give you a list."
Robert grunted. "Do it."
Steffon didn't press further. He waited a moment, then turned slightly to face Jon Arryn.
"There's another matter," he said, this time not accusing but proposing. "The Crown needs a new Master of Laws. And soon… a new Hand."
Jon raised an eyebrow. Robert blinked.
"Seven hells, I'm still breathing," Jon said, not unkindly.
Steffon inclined his head. "You are. And no one doubts your strength. But your age is no secret, my lord. You've carried this kingdom for years. You should help name your successor—while you still can."
Robert poured himself a cup of watered wine, eyes flicking between them. "And who would you have, boy? Renly? Littlefinger?"
"No," Steffon said. "I recommend Lord Eddard Stark."
The name fell like a hammer.
Robert looked up sharply, eyes narrowing with memory.
"Ned?"
Steffon nodded. "He's loyal. Proven. Too honorable to play games. And he owes you his life. He won't betray you."
Robert leaned back, chewing the thought like gristle. "He hates the court."
"Then he won't try to rule it," Steffon said. "That's what makes him valuable."
Jon studied the boy for a long moment. The suggestion was shrewd. Stark would never try to outmaneuver Robert, and he could be trusted to act when Jon's strength failed.
And more importantly, he could be guided—by Steffon.
Robert finally exhaled, half-laughing. "I'll write to him. Gods know I could use a familiar face in this den of snakes."
"There's another matter. Renly."
That gave Robert pause. He raised an eyebrow.
"What of him?"
"He holds a seat on the council," Steffon said. "But he doesn't attend half the meetings. When he does, he interrupts. Jokes. He's not interested in the work."
"He's young," Robert muttered. "Like you."
"I was young when I rebuilt King's Landing's ports. He's young and indifferent."
The room went quiet. Jon gave a faint hum of agreement, but did not interrupt.
Steffon continued, now walking slowly across the solar.
"Stannis is your true Master of Ships. But more than that, he understands duty. He should take Renly's seat on the Council."
Robert scratched his beard. "You want the crab to replace the peacock."
"I want a man who reads ledgers and respects the realm," Steffon said. "Renly can keep titles. But not a vote that matters."
Robert stared at him for a long time, as if seeing the lines of age on a face still too young to wear them.
"And who replaces Stannis, then?"
Steffon didn't hesitate.
"Lord Paxter Redwyne."
Robert blinked. "The Reachman?"
"He's competent. Naval-minded. Ambitious—but in a way that serves the realm. He supported the Targaryens once. Offering him a seat now secures his loyalty permanently. It binds the Reach to the Crown without needing to spill blood."
Jon stepped forward now, nodding slowly. "It's smart. Forgive an old enemy, earn a new friend."
Robert sat back in his chair, rubbing his face with one hand. "Gods. My boy's already rearranging the council like it's a cyvasse board."
"No, Father," Steffon said evenly. "I'm restoring the board, so the pieces play for the realm—not themselves."
Jon met Robert's gaze. The unspoken question between them was not whether Steffon was right.
It was whether they were brave enough to admit it.
Robert finally gave a gruff sigh, slapping the table once with an open palm.
"Fine. Stark comes first. Laws. Then he takes your chair, Jon—when you're ready. Stannis joins the Council. We'll talk to Renly. Quietly."
"And Redwyne?"
Robert hesitated. Then nodded. "When the time's right."
Steffon bowed his head.
The old order was falling away.
And no one heard the hammer but the ones already too late to stop it.
(POV: Third Person — Red Keep, King's Solar)
The midday sun filtered through the colored glass of the solar, painting red and gold across the table. Robert sat hunched forward, quill in hand, face flushed not with drink but effort. Writing did not come easily to him anymore. The words did not flow like mead from a horn. They stuck.
Steffon stood nearby, silent, hands clasped behind his back.
Across from them, Jon Arryn had already finished dictating half the phrasing, but Robert insisted on his voice. "He's my friend," he muttered. "He'll know if it's not my hand on the page."
After a long pause and another scratch of the quill, Robert looked up.
"You'll send it with a proper escort. No ravens. I want this to reach him untouched."
Steffon nodded.
Robert sighed and looked at what he had written. It wasn't elegant. But it was honest.
(The Letter)
To Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell,
I've never liked writing, so I'll be plain.
I need you.
Jon is growing old. I trust no one else. I trust you.
The court has rotted. You always said it would. I see it now, gods help me. Varys is dead. Pycelle is next. There's poison in every cup and lies in every face. I want someone here who doesn't smile when he stabs.
I won't make you Hand. Not yet. Jon still breathes, and I'd not shove him aside like some old rug.
But I want you as Master of Laws. Come to King's Landing. Sit on the Council. Help me keep this realm from falling to pieces.
Bring your honor. We've got none left down here.
— Robert
(POV: Eddard Stark — Winterfell, Lord's Solar)
Snow drifted past the high windows of the solar, wind tapping lightly against the glass panes. Eddard Stark sat in silence, the open letter resting on the desk before him. He had read it three times.
The handwriting was Robert's. That much was clear.
But so was the desperation.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing on the fire in the hearth.
He didn't want to go. He had no interest in the southern games. He had daughters to raise, sons to train, a wife to protect. But the tone in Robert's words—it was not a king summoning a servant. It was a friend crying for help.
And worse… Jon Arryn must have agreed.
That meant something was truly wrong.
He folded the letter slowly and looked out over the snowy courtyard of Winterfell, where Robb was sparring with Theon under Rodrik Cassel's eye. Bran watched from the tower steps, small and curious.
Winter was coming.
And the South was calling.
(POV: Third Person — Red Keep, Courtyard, Late Afternoon)
The sun broke against the towers of the Red Keep as the gates opened to let in the northern party. The procession was small — just two dozen men in Stark colors, their fur-lined cloaks stirring gently in the southern breeze. They looked out of place in the warmth, carved from ice and granite.
At their head rode Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North.
He wore no smile.
Robert met him at the foot of the stairs. The king's belly strained beneath his doublet, and his steps were heavy with wine and time, but for once, his voice was not slurred.
"Ned."
Eddard dismounted slowly, his eyes sweeping the courtyard. Then he looked at Robert.
"Your letter was heavier than the snow," he said quietly.
Robert clasped his shoulder with a hand like a smith's hammer. "Come inside."
The solar had changed little, though the air felt heavier somehow — more stale. The walls still bore old tapestries, and the wine pitcher had not yet been poured. Robert sat, crownless, shoulders slumped like an aging ox.
"You meant every word," Eddard said after the silence stretched too long.
"I did."
"And you want me to sit among them—Lannisters, schemers, cowards—and pretend this is still the realm we fought to build?"
Robert looked up, and for once, there was no jest in him.
"I want you here," he said. "Because I know you'll tell me when the rot goes too deep. And because Jon can't carry it forever."
Eddard's jaw tensed.
"I'm not made for court."
"No," said another voice from the doorway, calm and clear. "But that's what makes you valuable."
Eddard turned.
Steffon Baratheon stood at the threshold, dressed in dark gray and black, his green eyes steady and unreadable. He stepped forward, offering a short bow.
"My lord Stark," he said. "Welcome to King's Landing."
Eddard studied him. The boy he knew from the letters was gone. What stood now was too still. Too silent. And too sharp.
Robert laughed weakly, but Eddard's gaze stayed locked on the boy — no, not a boy, not anymore.
"You wanted me here," he said. "You made the case."
"I did," Steffon admitted. "The realm needs someone who believes law is more than words spoken to silence fear."
"And what do you believe?"
"That the realm must be rebuilt," Steffon said. "And that it can't be rebuilt by those who rotted it."
Eddard looked between Robert and Steffon. He saw what they wanted. One for loyalty. One for strategy.
He sighed.
"I'll stay," he said. "But I don't play games. I won't be your dagger."
"I wouldn't insult you by asking," Steffon said. "I only want you to hold the line. While I move behind it."
Eddard did not reply.
But in his silence, there was consent.
(POV: Third Person — Red Keep, Council Chamber, Late Afternoon)
The council chamber was unusually still. Only the faint crackle of the hearthfire and the scratch of a quill disturbed the heavy air. King Robert Baratheon sat at the head of the table, frowning deeply, fingers drumming against the wood. Beside him, Jon Arryn stood stiffly, his hands folded behind his back. Near the window, Lord Eddard Stark, newly arrived from Winterfell, listened with silent vigilance.
Prince Steffon Baratheon, robed in dark gray and black, spoke clearly, his voice calm and respectful.
"The realm's stability depends on strong alliances. The Reach remains our richest and most fertile region. Securing that loyalty now, while there is peace, will prevent greater wars later."
Robert grunted. "Get to it, lad."
Steffon nodded once.
"Lord Renly has served the Crown at court, but his talents would be better used elsewhere. His charm and spirit would strengthen our bonds with House Tyrell, should he reside in Highgarden for a time. As a royal envoy. A visible sign of royal favor."
Jon Arryn gave a slight nod. Even Eddard Stark, cautious by nature, seemed to accept the logic. It was a political exile, but wrapped in velvet.
Robert leaned back in his chair and huffed.
"Fine. I'll speak to Renly myself. He'll go to Highgarden. Better he dances with flowers than poisons himself on small council chairs."
Steffon bowed his head slightly.It was done.No argument.No blood.
The court would think Renly honored.But Steffon would know: he had removed a piece from the board without even raising his voice.
(POV: Third Person — Red Keep, Gatehouse, Four Days Later)
Lord Renly Baratheon rode out from King's Landing under the golden light of a clear morning. His procession was small but fashionable: knights bearing the crowned stag, attendants in rich velvet, retainers humming songs of courtly love.
He smiled and waved to the assembled courtiers, but the sharpest eyes saw the stiffness in his spine.
Prince Steffon watched from the high balcony, arms folded behind his back. Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Arys Oakheart stood silently to either side, white cloaks bright against the stone.
"Highgarden will suit him," Steffon murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "A garden needs many petals. And fewer thorns."
The Order of the Storm would not miss Renly's games.