Hand of the King

"People?"

Garon wore a mocking smile; he had already guessed what Jaime was about to say.

Sure enough.

Seeing Garon's questioning look, Jaime slowly approached him, provoking him with an intimidating tone.

"You know, the first time you cut a man is the most unforgettable!"

"You suddenly realize that a person is nothing more than flesh and skin stretched over bone."

"It only takes a slight swipe of a blade..."

Jaime made a throat-slitting gesture at Garon with a twisted sense of humor, trying to provoke him. "You'll find that people are no different from the animals you hunt so often!"

"However..."

Jaime paused slightly. Seeing Garon remain silent, he assumed he had been frightened and immediately felt bored.

He patted Garon on the shoulder and sneered, "But you Glovers should just stick to guarding the Wolfswood and hunting animals."

"Maybe one day, I'll spend a few gold dragons to buy some of the animal pelts you've hunted!"

With that, he didn't look at Garon again and turned away proudly.

Garon's eyes were cold and deep; he did not lose his temper or retort to Jaime's provocation.

In his eyes, whether Jaime lived or died depended on the outcome of tomorrow.

"Tywin is a hero of his age, yet the children he sired are nothing but lustful wretches. It is truly laughable!"

Especially Jaime and Cersei.

Consumed by their carnal desires, the two had been unable to wait even a single day after arriving at Winterfell to engage in their illicit affair.

They treated everyone as if they were invisible, bold to the point of absurdity.

Garon watched the departing Jaime, having already passed a death sentence on the Lannisters in his heart.

"Once Tywin is dead, the Westerlands will be mine for the taking!"

He sneered inwardly, ignored the rest, and turned back.

Elsewhere, in the crypts of Winterfell.

Ned raised his oil lamp and pointed to the three stone sarcophagi ahead. "Here, Your Grace!"

Robert nodded silently and knelt, bowing his head in respect.

There were three sarcophagi arranged side by side, each carved with a likeness of the person resting within.

Ned's father, Rickard Stark, had a stern, long face. The sculptor had captured his spirit well; he sat solemnly, his stone fingers gripping the sword resting across his lap.

Yet, not even a sword of the finest steel could save him; Rickard had been burned alive by the Mad King using wildfire.

In the smaller sarcophagi on either side of him were his children: his eldest son, Brandon Stark, and his eldest daughter, Lyanna Stark.

Lyanna was the woman Robert had loved most in his life.

After finishing his respects, Robert stood up and gazed at Lyanna's likeness, remaining silent for a moment.

"She was more beautiful than the statue, and she was only sixteen..."

Robert's gaze lingered on Lyanna's face, unwilling to look away for a long time, until he couldn't help but curse.

"Damn it, Ned, was it really necessary to bury her in a place where the sun never shines?"

"She was of House Stark of Winterfell," Ned said calmly. "She belongs here!"

The King clearly did not agree. "She should have been buried on a beautiful hill, with fruit trees planted on her grave, accompanied by sunshine and white clouds."

"I was by her side when she passed," Ned said, fearing the King might insist on his own way. "She only wanted to go home and rest beside Brandon and her father."

Ned also looked at the sarcophagus, the scene of Lyanna's final moments flashing through his mind, his eyes momentarily unfocused.

In the blink of an eye, fourteen years had passed.

Now, even her child had grown into a man.

Thinking of Jon, Ned confided in Lyanna about his recent life. "Lyanna, Jon has made a good friend recently, Garon Glover of Deepwood Motte."

"I don't think you are a stranger to the Glovers; Brandon's squire, Yinsen, is his uncle."

"Under Garon's influence, the boy has begun to grow more positive and optimistic..."

He had so much he wanted to say to her, but he knew these words had to remain buried deep in his heart.

Ned had spent fourteen years planning and concealing Jon's true parentage just to protect Lyanna's child; he would, of course, never reveal Jon's identity.

Robert stroked the cheek of Lyanna's statue as gently as if he were touching a living person, muttering to himself, "I swore I would kill Rhaegar to avenge her!"

Ned, pulling himself back to reality, reminded him, "Your Grace, you have already killed him!"

"How could killing him once ever be enough!" Robert's eyes were filled with hatred and rage. "Do you know, Ned!"

"The two Targaryen remnants from back then are nearly grown now, and I hear someone is funding them from the shadows."

"If I don't kill them, how can Lyanna ever rest in peace!"

Ned frowned, "They are just two children."

"Children?" Robert tilted his head and stared at Ned, "Fourteen years, it has been fourteen years already!"

"Once that girl has her moon blood, by Targaryen tradition they will mate, and then an endless stream of dragonspawn will be born."

"Ned, are you still going to call them children?"

Ned shook his head, not wanting to argue with Robert, "You should discuss these matters with your Hand, Your Grace."

"Forget it, Ned," Robert said with a grave expression, "I don't believe you don't know why I came to The North."

"Ned, come to King's Landing and be my Hand."

"You are the only person I trust now!"

Ned looked at him, a warm current surging in his heart.

If he didn't have his family or The North, he might have agreed immediately.

But now...

"Your Grace," Ned politely declined, "I fear my abilities are not sufficient for such a high office."

Robert acted as if he hadn't heard Ned's refusal, pretending to be impatient as he said, "If I were really looking out for you, I would have let you retire long ago."

"I intend for you to govern the realm, while I eat, drink, and make merry."

"Just like that proverb describing the King and the Hand, you know it, don't you?"

Of course Ned knew it.

"The King dreams," he said, "the Hand builds."

"A fisher girl I slept with told me a much better metaphor from the lower classes: the King eats the feast, and the Hand cleans up the shit."

As soon as these words were out, Robert threw his head back and roared with laughter, the echoes resounding through the darkness.

When the laughter ceased, Robert looked at Ned and smiled, "Lord Ned Stark, I hereby appoint you Hand of the King!"

Ned immediately knelt on one knee, still wanting to refuse.

But Robert didn't give him the chance, pleading, "Since Jon died, the situation in King's Landing has become complex, and I need your help."

"Ned, you and Jon helped me win that chair, so you should help me guard it."

"My most trusted friend, you cannot abandon me when I need you the most!"

Ned's lips moved, his heart stirred with emotion, but in the end, he sighed, "As you command, Your Grace!"

Robert laughed and pulled Ned to his feet, "That's it, Ned, look at the bond between us!"

"If Lyanna were still alive, you and I would be brothers by marriage."

"But it's not too late..."

Just as Robert intended to propose a marriage between his son Joffrey and Ned's daughter Sansa, the sound of footsteps came from the crypts again.

It abruptly interrupted what Robert was about to say.

Ned's brows furrowed; he had explicitly ordered that no one was to come in and disturb them.

"Who is it?"

He asked coldly, shouting toward the darkness.

"Ned, it's me, Benjen!"

An unexpected voice drifted over.