Looking upon his old friend's eyes, King Robert glared furiously at Tywin Lannister, who stood below the dais, his gaze calm and steady.
But after a long stare, Robert could only sink back into his seat again, fuming, glaring at everything before him.
Seeing that this furious stag of a king had finally restrained himself, Eddard Stark rubbed his brow, sighed inwardly, and then turned his head toward Tywin Lannister.
"Lord Tywin, you said just now that you are willing to give up everything belonging to House Lannister—including your honor, lands, wealth, even your title, is that so?"
Eddard steadied his emotions and spoke.
"This is a vast fortune. Everyone across the Seven Kingdoms knows just how rich the Lannisters are."
Tywin's tone was filled with pride, as though it were not he who was giving these things up.
"That much is beyond doubt—" Eddard looked into Tywin's eyes, but within those calm pupils lay only a dead stillness, revealing nothing.
Only when Robert had spoken of his bastard killing Tywin's son and his woman had that man's composure shown the faintest ripple.
Thus, Eddard truly could not see what Tywin was planning.
He guessed inwardly that perhaps Tywin Lannister simply wished to find one final retreat for House Lannister.
To preserve his family's bloodline had been Tywin Lannister's lifelong wish—this, many people knew well.
They knew even more that he had spent his whole life struggling toward that goal.
Yet within Eddard's heart lingered a trace of unease.
For behind all that stood Tywin's unyielding will to stop at nothing, his shrewdness, his calculation, his foresight, and his ruthlessness.
His political talent always allowed him to choose, amid tangled and complex situations, the path most favorable to House Lannister—
Just as he was doing now.
And Eddard also knew clearly that Tywin's bowing his head to the Iron Throne at this moment was both the most dignified and the least costly choice for the Lannisters.
Only by doing so could he retain the terms and leverage to negotiate with the Iron Throne.
Thinking this, Eddard Stark gradually convinced himself—choosing to believe that Tywin Lannister truly did not wish to see everything descend into the worst possible outcome.
He drew a deep breath, his gaze shifting several times, then looked once more at the noble lords who were already beginning to grow agitated.
Eddard Stark's expression was complicated.
If the mighty House Lannister were to collapse in this way, it would mean countless new opportunities within the Westerlands.
What would happen then?
Eddard did not know.
At last, he withdrew his gaze, suppressing his thoughts, and turned again toward Tywin.
"What of the armies under your command?"
Having chosen to trust Tywin Lannister, Eddard Stark, as Hand of the King, became pragmatic—
And he had to be pragmatic. That was his duty.
Now the foremost task was to end this war.
"They will be prisoners of the Iron Throne. His Majesty may deal with them as he wishes—of course, short of executing them. After all, I imagine they would not wish their surrender to be rewarded with death."
"If possible, Your Majesty may send them to take the black."
"Or, have them swear fealty to you."
Tywin Lannister's reply to the Hand's question was smooth and practiced, as though he had long since prepared for it in his mind.
At his answer, Eddard frowned slightly.
He turned to glance at the now silent king.
"They will stand trial. Those whose crimes are unforgivable shall still face death, and their titles, honor, and lands shall be stripped away."
"Their crimes of lesser weight shall be punished by stripping their titles, honors, and lands, and sending them in black to the Wall."
"As for the rest, I can grant them one chance."
Facing the gaze of his Hand, Robert was forced to suppress the killing intent in his heart as he pronounced judgment upon the Lannister army—thirty thousand strong.
Hearing the king's words, Eddard Stark found nothing amiss. He nodded at once, then turned his head toward Tywin below.
"This is the best course of action. And since they are all elite soldiers, I believe they will make His Majesty's rule all the more secure."
Meeting Eddard Stark's eyes, Tywin Lannister of course voiced no objection—
Or rather, this had been within his expectations from the start.
"Very well. But regarding your army, I must ensure we can take them into custody safely."
"Neither His Majesty nor I wish this to turn into a trap."
Eddard considered things comprehensively, with careful thought to every detail.
To this, Tywin had no objection. "They will surrender in several groups, laying down their arms and removing their equipment."
"Very well—one last question."
With the matter of the army settled, the weight upon Eddard's heart finally eased.
He felt himself somewhat lighter.
But the matter before him was not yet finished.
"Does Lord Eddard Stark mean the sellswords?"
At Eddard's words, Tywin Lannister's tone rose slightly.
"We do not know what dealings you've made with them—but this problem must be resolved."
Eddard's expression turned grave.
To the Lord of Winterfell, bringing foreign mercenaries to invade one's own realm and lands was something unforgivable.
Yet before the greater whole, Eddard Stark had to yield to reality.
No—he corrected himself—to survival.
Eddard Stark said this silently within his heart.
As for the question, Tywin merely shook his head slowly, the corner of his mouth seeming to curve in faint, mocking amusement—
Yet it was swiftly hidden beneath his solemn composure.
"They will not receive a single coin."
"And the Lannister host that remains will serve as reason enough to dissuade them."
"But that, Lord Eddard, is your problem now."
Saying this, Tywin Lannister lifted his gaze toward the king upon the Iron Throne—Robert Baratheon I, who glared down at him, eyes blazing with open, murderous intent.
With these matters settled, it was now his turn.
...
Jon was still not quite used to being a knight.
He wasn't used to hearing his bastard name spoken with the title "Ser" before it.
Nor was he used to wearing such fine clothes—silk, the kind southern nobles favored—which only made him feel constrained.
At his waist hung Pale Justice, which had endured battle after battle. He'd had a blacksmith repair it, and now it still hung there.
Jon pressed the weapon slightly to one side, then reached down to stroke the neck of his horse.
As for the saddle behind him, there hung a wooden chest painted black.
"Ser Jon, have you decided on your family name yet?"
Having just left the Hall of Summer, perhaps finding the scenery along the Boneway too dull, Bronn—riding loosely in the saddle—struck up a conversation with Jon.
It was a question that genuinely piqued his curiosity.
Perhaps it was also the boredom from several days of hard riding.
Ever since they and Kal Stone had taken King's Landing, they'd stayed there only three days before being urged to leave by Kal himself.
Kal Stone had assigned a force of fifty men to accompany Jon Snow—all warriors of the mountain clans who had followed Kal out of the Mountains of the Moon.
Along with them came a maester, two Lannister soldiers, and two Gold Cloaks from the city garrison.
They had joined the expedition as witnesses.
As for the clan warriors, Kal had no concerns about their obedience to Jon's command.
After following Kal Stone through several battles and personally witnessing the man's overwhelming might, they had long forgotten their old life as wild men in the mountains.
They had always revered strength and violence; after what they'd experienced, their faith in Kal had grown into something near fanatical.
To them, carrying out his orders had become a point of honor.
Still, since these men had come from the mountains, Kal had sent Bronn along as a safeguard to accompany Jon on this mission.
Hearing Bronn's question, Jon grew a bit uneasy. He straightened his collar, feeling the sweat that had already soaked his back and crotch.
The silk garments, dampened by sweat and clinging to his chest and back under the hot wind, gave him a feeling of irritation and discomfort.
Since crossing the Trident and heading farther south, the weather had grown steadily warmer.
Now, having reached the borderlands near Dorne, it felt scorching hot.
It was a kind of climate he had never known in all his life.
He had yet to grow used to being a Northerner turned Southerner—just as he had yet to grow used to being a bastard turned knight.
"I haven't decided yet. Perhaps after I meet my father, I'll give it serious thought."
To become a knight—or rather, a Ser—meant that even as a bastard, Jon Snow now had the right to establish a house of his own.
He could choose to change his surname from Snow, then design for himself a sigil that would represent him—
Along with a family motto that could be passed down through his bloodline.
But unlike his knightly lord, Kal Stone, Jon was utterly unaccustomed to, or rather confused about, what it meant to be a knight.
Jon was still not yet fifteen years old.
So amid this sudden sense of confusion, what he looked forward to most was, in truth, meeting his father, Eddard Stark.
To see if he could receive some advice—and an answer he had wanted to know all his life.
Before this war had even begun, Eddard had promised him that answer.
He had said that when Jon became a knight, he would personally tell him who his mother was.
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