Chương 12

Jon Arryn Entering the royal apartments, Jon Arryn found the king exactly where he feared, slouched on the edge of his bed with a wineskin at his side. His shoulders slackened at the sight. It hurt no less now to see Robert like this than any of the many times before.

"The army is ready to move out, Your Grace." Jon kept his voice even. It echoed in the still chamber.

"It waits only for its king." Light from the Narrow Sea spilled through tall windows, catching the dust motes that danced in the stagnant air. It seemed more a sick room than that of a young conqueror king. Robert didn't look up. His fingers worked at the stopper on the wineskin, twisting it absently.

He was dressed for riding—immaculately so, the black leather and gold trim fitted perfectly, his boots polished to a shine—but he looked a shell of a man compared to the last time Jon had seen Robert riding out for war. Pale. Two stone lighter than he'd been all those years ago. His eyes glassy and unfocused.

"Any other lords answered?" Robert asked. The question hung in the air between them. Jon's expression softened. He knew what Robert meant without him having to say it.

"Lord Umber will lead the northern forces," Jon said. Robert gave a brittle laugh. The sound was hollow, empty of any real humor.

"I see." He lifted the wineskin, took a pull, then lowered it again.

"What was the excuse this time? Catelyn's pregnant with another child? Summer snows blocking travel?" His voice rose, taking on an edge.

"Wildlings attacking the Wall?" Jon sighed.

"Robert…" Robert waved him away and stood, the movement stiff.

"I do not doubt Ned's loyalty, Jon. Not now and not ever. But this is war. Another war. I had thought…" He trailed off, his jaw working.

"You thought it would be like before," Jon finished for him. He stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back.

"I wished so too, Your Grace. More than you could know." He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"But while the Rebellion was hard for all who fought in it, it was hardest for Eddard." That much was true. Eddard Stark had not even returned to King's Landing for Robert's coronation. Not after finding his sister dead in that tower in Dorne. He'd taken a ship from Starfall and sailed straight back to the North, so consumed by grief he hadn't even stopped at Riverrun to collect his new bride. He'd sent a small escort to retrieve the Lady Catelyn only after he'd already arrived back in Winterfell.

"I know that," Robert said. Annoyance crept into his voice, though even that seemed a weak thing. Muted. Like everything else about him these days. How many years had it been since Jon had seen the king's passions truly rise? He had not thought much of it at first. When the tourneys died down some years ago, Jon had assumed Robert had simply grown weary of the pageantry.

When the king stopped going out on hunts, Jon thought he'd grown tired of spending days in the woods instead of his luxurious chambers in the Red Keep. He had not truly worried until the whores stopped showing up at the king's rooms. That had been the clearest sign something was deeply wrong. Robert Baratheon, who had bedded half the tavern girls in the Vale before he was eight and ten, who had boasted in between battles of finally making the eight, that Robert would never have turned away from women willingly.

Jon had tried speaking to him about it, only to be rebuked. He'd gone to Grand Maester Pycelle next, asking carefully about maladies of the mind if not the body. But he should have known the Grand Maester would be too sycophantic and afraid to ever entertain the possibility that the king might not be doing well out loud. Who could he turn to for this? Eddard might have helped. Gods, but Jon had hoped the Lord of Winterfell would answer the call this time.

Perhaps sharing the battlefield with his old friend might have stirred something in Robert, might have brought him back to himself. But it was not to be. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. It occurred to Jon, not for the first time, that perhaps Eddard was suffering just as much as the king.

"And Varys?" Robert asked. His tone shifted, sharpening just slightly.

"What did he say?" Jon sucked in a breath through his teeth. Before the raven had come from Casterly Rock telling of the sacking of Lannisport, the recent whispers from the east, rumors of Targaryen sails spotted near Volantis, had been the only thing that seemed to lift Robert from his slump. For a few brief weeks, the king had shown something like his old fire. He'd paced the council chamber, demanding reports, ordering searches. Jon only wished he could fan those flames.

If only to see the man come to life again. But he could not lie. Could not give false hope to his king. Not when such a lie could bring so much instability to the kingdoms. He shook his head.

"Nothing, Your Grace."

"And you believe him?" Jon let out a soft snort.

"I would not trust the eunuch to roll down the Giant's Lance if I pushed him down myself." He paused, meeting Robert's eyes.

"But he is competent in his craft. I have my own men around the kingdoms and beyond. Men I've worked with for decades." He spread his hands.

"If there are any Targaryens out there, they are ghosts, Robert. The Seven Kingdoms and its king cannot chase ghosts forever."

"Ghosts," Robert repeated. He looked away, his gaze drifting to the window.

"Velaryon and his fleet gone before Stannis even sets sight on Dragonstone. Three Kingsguard vanished without a trace. Elia Martell and her sprogs out there somewhere, plotting against my reign." He shook his head.

"Aye. Ghosts indeed." Jon felt a headache forming at the back of his skull, a dull throb that promised to worsen as the day wore on. How many times must they have this conversation? He did not like to rebuke Robert too harshly on this subject. These so-called mysteries had been the only thing the king ever took a real interest in during his reign. The only time his eyes lost that glassy, distant look. And it was true they did not have solid answers.

But the truth often came from the simplest explanations, not grand conspiracies. Velaryon had likely wrecked his fleet in the storm that swept across the Narrow Sea before Lord Stannis could take Dragonstone. Ser Gerold Hightower and his two fellow Kingsguard were either long dead or living as penniless exiles in Essos, their white cloaks sold for bread.

Such famed knights as the White Bull and the Sword of the Morning would not have gone unnoticed by his contacts for long, not even if they went as far east as Asshai. And Elia Martell and her poor children? They were rotting at the bottom of Blackwater Bay, if the rumors were true that she'd thrown herself from a balcony when Tywin Lannister sacked the city.

"There's something else," Jon said, hoping to change the subject. Even though he knew this would be no more pleasant for Robert.

"It's the Queen." Robert's head turned slowly.

"What now?" His shoulders tightened like a man expecting a blow.

"She has decided to accompany you to Casterly Rock." Jon kept his tone neutral.

"She says she wishes to give alms and show her support for the smallfolk of Lannisport after the sacking." For a moment, Robert only stared at him. Then he let out a sudden cackle that echoed off the stone walls. He kept laughing, bending forward and clutching his belly as if it hurt, until he sounded almost manic and deranged. Somehow, Jon found himself chuckling along. Then laughing outright. Within moments the two of them were doubled over, gasping, giggling like squires who'd snuck wine from the kitchens.

When it finally subsided, Robert looked up at him with a crooked smile on his face. Jon felt a pang of sorrow stab through his chest. For just a moment, it almost looked like the old Robert. The boy who'd fostered at the Eyrie, who'd swung a warhammer like it weighed nothing, who'd laughed freely and loved fiercely.

"Thank you for this parting gift, Jon," Robert said. He walked over to his bed and grabbed the wineskin.

"I'll remember it when I feel like throwing myself off my horse." He took a long swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"My lovely wife will be joining us on the road, eh? Gods, but that is the cruelest thing you've ever told me." Later, Jon stood in the yard of the Red Keep and watched as the king mounted his horse. The retinue formed up around him, knights in polished armor, bannermen carrying standards that snapped in the wind, servants leading pack animals and wagons laden with supplies. Behind them all, moving at a ponderous pace, came the slow-rolling carriage carrying Queen Cersei Lannister. Robert did not look back.

Just spurred his horse forward and rode through the gates. Accompanying him on the Gold Road would be the levies of the Crownlands, which would be joined by some of Lord Hoster's men midway to Casterly Rock. A respectable force. Along with the men under Tywin, the Reachmen, and the Northmen, it would be more than enough to crush the Ironborn in their foolhardy rebellion. Jon watched until the last of the column disappeared from view, swallowed by the streets of King's Landing.

Then he turned back toward the Tower of the Hand. The king leaving would not affect much of his own duties. He already did most of the ruling of the kingdom himself, had done so for years now. He was a king without a crown, in truth. And seeing what the weight of that crown was doing to the boy whose brow it sat upon, a boy Jon loved like his own son, he only wished, like any father would, that he could bear it all for him.