The doors to the king's bedchamber slowly closed behind Ned Stark, shutting out every whisper and anxious gaze outside.
Varys, Pycelle, Cersei...
Robert had used the last of his strength to roar at them all to leave.
Only he and Robert remained in the room.
And that thick, inescapable stench of herbs, blood, and rot, almost suffocating in its intensity.
Ned walked to the bedside and looked at the dear friend he had grown up with.
The powerful man who could once cave in an enemy's breastplate with a single hammer blow was now merely a shell clinging to life in bed.
The wound in his belly had been sealed with a hot iron, and the charred, rotten flesh gave off a nauseating smell.
Fever had flushed his cheeks an unhealthy red.
Those blue eyes, once so full of life, were now clouded, as though veiled in gray mist.
In this final rally before death, Robert felt clearer than he ever had, as if he had spent his life in a fog that had suddenly lifted.
"Ned..."
Robert's voice broke the silence.
It was no longer the furious roar of moments before, but strangely calm-so calm it was unsettling.
"Have they all gone?"
"They have, Robert. It's just me."
Ned sat down beside his bed.
"Good... good..."
Robert struggled to move the corners of his mouth.
He seemed to be trying to smile, but the expression was uglier than tears.
His clouded eyes swept around the room before settling on Ned's face again.
"I'm... a fucking bastard, aren't I?"
Ned's heart clenched.
He had never expected Robert to say such a thing.
"When we were young... at the Eyrie, Jon was always scolding me, saying that little bit of flesh between my legs would be my ruin."
Robert's breathing quickened.