While Eddard reflected on the problems this war had caused and how, as the Hand, he would have to resolve them, he suddenly felt like one of the draft horses back in Winterfell—blindfolded by its "master" and forced to circle endlessly around the millstone.
With a sigh, Eddard tugged at his collar, letting a faint breeze bring what little relief it could.
His gaze then drifted toward the distant sea and the outline of King's Landing.
Above him, the sun blazed fiercely.
Compared to the perpetually snow-covered North, the southern capital was another world entirely.
He wore only a silk outer robe; his heavy furs had long been packed away in a chest—who knew when he would wear them again.
Even so, the thin silk clung tightly to his chest.
The air was stifling and humid, wrapping everything before him like a damp wool blanket, making it hard to breathe.
This was not a place meant for him to stay—he belonged in the cold North.
There, it was dry, comfortable, and quiet—life seemed frozen in time, untouched by the chaos of the outside world.
After finishing a day's work, he could spend time with his children, and at night, after sharing warmth with Catelyn, he would open the window and let the cold wind brush against his bare skin.
That was when he felt most like a true man of the North.
Not like now.
Withdrawing his gaze from Tywin Lannister, Eddard looked once more toward the destination ahead before finally turning his head to face his king.
Then, in a tone that sounded almost like a sigh, he said, "If I'm not mistaken, Your Grace, the time you've spent sleeping in your bed at the Red Keep is less than half the time you've spent in others' beds."
Darkly brooding over the "pleasant" life awaiting him in King's Landing, Eddard chose to tease his old friend in his own way, as if to ease his growing irritation.
The King, however, failed to notice the weight of resentment in his Hand's voice and instead grew displeased at what he heard.
"Who told you that?"
The deep growl in his voice made it clear what mood he was in.
But Eddard merely smacked his lips and looked at the fat man before him as though at a fool.
"Stories about you drift above the Seven Kingdoms, my king. I don't need to hear them from anyone's mouth."
His tone carried undisguised disdain.
The King's expression darkened, his glare almost predatory.
"Let's hope those are good stories," the King said angrily, his voice a threat. "I like praise—but slander? I'll rip out the tongue of whoever dares it."
Eddard merely wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep breath of the stifling, humid air—trying hard to draw out what little oxygen it still held.
"I suppose, then, you'd never again hear your favorite songs, my respected king."
"After all, a man without a tongue can neither speak nor sing."
"If I remember correctly, your favorite tunes are 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair,' 'A Cask of Ale,' and 'Fifty-Four Barrels,' aren't they?"
"Perhaps, Your Grace, you should show some mercy—and give those poor souls a chance to earn their supper."
As he said this, he turned again, looking at the King before him with visible confusion in his eyes, filled with incomprehension.
"And Seven save us—you're easy to please. It's always either wine or women."
"You mean to say no one's ever spoken well of their king?" Robert flared, seeming at last to grasp Eddard Stark's mockery.
His shout boomed like thunder.
Eddard loosened his collar. "The southern winds never reach the North, Your Grace. Up there, the cold can freeze your piss into ice—perhaps words of praise for a king freeze just as quickly."
At those words, sharp yet veiled, the King fell silent.
Then, after a long pause, he suddenly burst into loud laughter.
His thick fingers lifted, pointing at Eddard. "You're right, Ned—but I'm the King. I do as I please."
"And right now, your King has been pent up for months. Believe me, the whores behind the Rhaenys Hill must miss me dearly—and how could I ever bear to let women wait for me?"
The irritation on the King's face had long since vanished, replaced entirely by an expression of eager excitement—like rain at last after a long drought.
He continued his endless rambling.
"Those washerwomen out there can't compare to the beauties of King's Landing. They've no taste at all."
"Their skin could grind the Stark family's 'ice' into razor blades for shaving."
"So I'm ready—I'll summon you after I've had some sleep, my Hand."
Robert laughed heartily, carefree as though his grand secret plot had just been exposed, and casually revealed the plan he'd been keeping in his heart all along.
Faced with that look of shameless satisfaction—as if saying, I won't pretend anymore, I'm rich and I'm owning it—Eddard's face twisted in bitterness.
He had known it; his teasing hadn't been wrong.
How could he possibly not understand this man?
So, confronted with such brazenness, all Eddard could do was grind his teeth. "If you weren't the King, I'd have someone fit you with armor and challenge you to an honest duel."
"Believe me, I'd kick your arse to pieces."
"To deal with a fat man who can't even lift his hammer, I'd say my chances of victory are rather good."
The Hand cursed angrily, as if only through that could he vent his frustration.
But King Robert only laughed harder.
"Too bad for you, Ned—I am your King!"
...
King's Landing, outside the Gates of the Gods.
This was one of the seven main gates encircling the city walls, located near the King's Road.
Yet, unlike its usual bustling scene, the gate was now sealed off by the Goldcloaks, forbidding anyone from passing through.
They had cleared out a long and wide passageway.
Commoners, merchants, hedge knights, and even minor nobles could only stand outside the blockade, watching from a distance.
No one felt angry about being stopped.
Everyone knew perfectly well what today's elaborate display was for.
And standing at the end of the road was Kal Stone, the knight who now held actual control over King's Landing.
Sheltered beneath a pitched canopy to escape the scorching sun above, his gaze swept over the distant crowd before him.
He was observing—studying those warriors from his own clans who had been quietly integrated into the Goldcloak garrison of the city.
Compared to the other Goldcloaks, they stood out sharply.
Though clad in the same finely crafted armor, their bearing was entirely different.
Like a husky mixed into a pack of wolves.
"Ser Kal—would you like some chilled milk? Or perhaps some melon and fruit? They're the best refreshment in this kind of weather."
As Kal gazed upon the scene before him—the result of his careful work over these past days—a syrupy voice sounded beside his ear.
At the same time, an overpowering scent of perfume wafted toward him.
From the corner of his eye, Kal caught sight of a plump, bald man dressed in brightly colored silks and soft slippers designed to muffle his footsteps, now appearing at his side.
Holding a tray in his hands, the man presented it to Kal and began introducing its contents.
Kal merely cast a glance, then casually picked up the glass of iced milk.
He felt the coolness seeping into his palm, refreshing and pleasant, yet he did not raise it to his lips.
Instead, his eyes shifted—fixing on the column of dust rising in the distance along the King's Road.
"Lord Varys, before we enjoy these comforts, I think we must first prepare something more to the King's liking."
"As the Master of Whisperers who has served the royal household for many years, what would you suggest?"
In that moment, Kal appeared every bit the young man eager to prove himself worthy of recognition.
"The things the King needs are never ours to prepare, and Ser Kal has never needed anything prepared for him."
When Kal carried off his cup of milk, Varys first set down the tray in his hands before picking up another glass of chilled milk and speaking leisurely.
"I am but a eunuch. I think Ser Kal should understand better than I what the King truly needs."
The spymaster Varys chuckled softly. The look in his eyes toward Kal carried that familiar hint of unspoken understanding.
Then he brought the chilled milk to his lips and drank half the glass in a single breath.
Letting out a satisfied sigh, he savored the coolness of the shade at noon and praised the rare chill in his hand.
Compared to the blazing sun all around, it was indeed a pleasure.
Kal glanced at Varys, then lifted his own glass of cold milk to his nose and sniffed.
"What did you add in this?"
Kal asked. In the milk, he could smell traces of herbs and mint.
"The summer heat can be venomous," Varys replied with a smile. "I had the servants mix in some cooling herbs and a little mint. It gives a fresher feeling."
"Otherwise, waiting here like this, we'd soon faint from the heat. You know how it is, Ser Kal—I'm a fat man, and fat men suffer the heat the worst."
Seeing Kal's reaction, Varys explained while fanning himself with his wide sleeve, trying to bring a bit of relief against the scorching day.
"I hope there's no poppy in it. I know what that thing is—once you touch it, you can't let go."
Kal joked lightly as he swirled the milk in his cup, but his eyes were fixed on Varys.
Hearing the hint of suspicion, Varys took another long sip of his milk.
Then he licked the foam from his lips with his tongue.
"Ser Kal's knowledge is indeed vast. As for that substance, I keep well away from it myself."
"Otherwise, once it empties out my brain, I'd end up performing in a circus—and I only hope they wouldn't find a foolish fat eunuch too distasteful."
At that, Kal let out a hearty laugh.
"When that time comes, I'll send a dwarf to keep you company. You two could form a duo adored across the Seven Kingdoms—a clever, perceptive pair, a skinny dwarf and a fat eunuch."
"My thanks in advance, Ser Kal," Varys said, as if missing the jab hidden in Kal's words. "I only hope that dwarf you speak of isn't Tyrion Lannister."
"Why not him?" Kal asked curiously.
"Because all the money we'd earn would be spent on wine and women," Varys replied innocently, spreading his hands. "And, alas, a eunuch who dislikes drinking has no part in those games."
That excuse took Kal by surprise for a moment.
Then, realizing the humor, he couldn't help bursting into laughter.
Varys, ever the clever eunuch, joined in as well—even though, in this joke, the fool was himself.
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