"Your Grace, I believe it is time we discuss the future of the Westerlands."
The early morning mist still clung to the streets of King's Landing, softening the outlines of towers and walls. The Red Keep loomed quietly above the city, its silhouette half-hidden in pale gray fog.
Eddard Stark had risen before dawn.
And now—standing outside Maegor's Holdfast—he blocked the path of the King himself.
"Ned?"
Robert Baratheon frowned deeply, clearly displeased at being intercepted the moment he returned.
He waved a hand impatiently, dismissing the attendants and guards nearby.
"Leave us."
The Kingsguard stepped back without hesitation.
Eddard studied Robert's face carefully.
He looked tired—but not drunk.
That alone was enough to give Eddard a small measure of relief.
With a restrained sigh, he bowed slightly.
"Your Grace."
More than a month had passed since Karl Stone had proposed his ambitious idea—creating a new economic system to increase the Iron Throne's income.
In that time, Eddard had held four meetings of the Small Council—roughly one per week.
Slowly, he had begun to understand the burdens of governance in King's Landing.
Slowly, he had come to see the deeper currents beneath the surface of the realm.
And now—
There was no more time to delay.
The problem of the Westerlands could not be ignored any longer.
King's Landing was already overcrowded.
Karl's "Martial Games" had drawn people from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
Commoners.
Merchants.
Knights.
Lords.
Even those with no real purpose had come—drawn by curiosity, ambition, or opportunity.
The city was swelling beyond its limits.
Fortunately, public order remained stable.
The Gold Cloaks had been reorganized, strengthened, and—most importantly—placed under Karl Stone's command.
Eddard trusted him.
Despite his youth, Karl possessed an uncanny ability to resolve problems with strange but effective solutions.
So far, no major disturbances had occurred.
But the nobles…
That was another matter entirely.
They were troublesome.
Demanding.
Relentless.
Since arriving in King's Landing, Eddard had been forced to meet countless individuals who had no real business—only requests, complaints, and veiled ambitions.
In the North, such things were rare.
Here—
They were constant.
"Ned," Robert muttered, rubbing his temples, "I just want to sleep."
"Do you know what I did last night?"
His tone was filled with irritation.
"And now you're blocking my way at dawn… talking about the Westerlands?"
He snorted.
"Seven hells, what is there to discuss?"
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and began walking toward his chambers.
Eddard followed.
He had expected this reaction.
Inside the King's bedchamber, Robert strode straight to a long table.
A finely crafted silver wine jug rested upon it.
He pulled the stopper free and poured himself a cup.
Tilting his head back, he drank deeply.
Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he poured another cup and handed it to Eddard.
Eddard accepted it—but did not drink.
Instead, he spoke.
"Your Grace, the Riverlands have suffered greatly."
"Now that the war has ended, the lords have returned to their lands—but many have come here instead."
"They seek compensation."
Robert froze.
Then slowly lowered his cup.
"Compensation?" he repeated.
His voice hardened.
"Has Hoster Tully complained to the Iron Throne?"
The question carried an edge of anger.
Eddard shook his head.
"No."
But the damage was done.
Robert's expression darkened instantly.
He slammed his cup onto the table.
"It seems he cannot control his own bannermen!"
His voice rose.
"Or does he expect that fool Edmure to inherit Riverrun and fix everything?"
"You remember, Ned—that was part of your negotiation with Tywin Lannister!"
Eddard winced slightly.
Robert had always been blunt—but today, his words were especially sharp.
He was angry.
Not just at the Riverlands—
But at everything.
Eddard understood why.
During the war, Edmure's decisions had caused disastrous consequences.
The situation had deteriorated rapidly.
King's Landing itself had been placed in danger.
If not for Karl Stone…
Eddard did not even want to imagine what might have happened.
Robert continued, his voice filled with contempt.
"Hoster Tully keeps silent, hiding behind his age—but his vassals come here, begging for rewards?"
"Do they take me for a fool?"
Eddard said nothing.
He knew Robert's anger was justified.
But anger alone would not solve the problem.
And the matter of the Westerlands—
Was even more complicated.
"The Lannisters have surrendered," Eddard said carefully.
"They have agreed to give up their wealth and influence."
"But the Westerlands are now leaderless."
He met Robert's gaze.
"We must decide who will rule Casterly Rock."
"And who will serve as Warden of the West."
There it was.
The heart of the matter.
Robert's expression changed instantly.
The anger faded.
A faint smile appeared.
"Well, Ned," he said, leaning back slightly, "what do you think?"
Eddard did not hesitate.
"Karl Stone."
The name fell clearly between them.
"No one is more suitable to become Lord of Casterly Rock."
Robert's smile widened.
For a moment, he looked almost pleased.
But then—
Eddard continued.
"As for the title of Warden of the West…"
He paused.
"Karl already holds the title of Warden of the East."
"Perhaps… this requires careful consideration."
The atmosphere changed.
Robert's face darkened immediately.
"I knew it," he growled.
"You're trying to bargain with me again!"
"Warden of the East. Warden of the West."
"Can Karl split himself in two?!"
He slammed his hand on the table.
"Are those Vale lords so impatient already?!"
Eddard raised both hands slightly.
"Your Grace, the Vale has not expressed any demands."
"They do not even know your intentions."
He spoke calmly, choosing his words carefully.
"Karl has proven himself."
"He has governed the Vale responsibly."
"He has not abused his authority."
"And…"
Eddard hesitated briefly.
"He has taken good care of young Robert Arryn."
The moment those words were spoken—
Robert exploded.
"Damn it!"
"They're all traitors!"
The wine cup shattered as he threw it to the ground.
His eyes burned with fury.
"Jon Arryn trusted them!"
"He raised that man—gave him everything!"
"And how did they repay him?"
"By murdering him!"
"If the Mountain hadn't killed him already, I would have done it myself!"
The room fell silent.
Eddard closed his eyes briefly.
He understood.
Karl had already presented the truth of Jon Arryn's death during a Small Council meeting.
The evidence was clear.
Littlefinger.
Lysa Arryn.
Poison.
Betrayal.
The matter had been suppressed—for now.
But the anger remained.
Burning beneath the surface.
"Lysa must die," Robert said coldly.
"And Hoster Tully will answer for this."
Eddard did not respond.
He could not.
One of them had to remain calm.
And it would not be Robert.
Instead, he spoke again—steadily.
"The matter of the Westerlands still requires a decision."
Robert stared at him.
Then, slowly, he exhaled.
"…Karl Stone will take Casterly Rock."
The decision was made.
Firm.
Final.
But the question of the Warden of the West—
Still remained.
Outside the chamber, Ser Barristan Selmy stood silently.
He had heard enough.
The King's anger.
The Hand's restraint.
The weight of decisions that would shape the realm.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Then resumed his watch.
Duty, above all else.
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