Eddard shoved a thick roll of parchment into the king's hands with the force of a man trying to drive a stake through stone.
"Your Grace, these are the expedition expenditures."
"Look at them! Look!"
"I'm not looking!" Robert twisted his head away like a petulant child. "I'm going hunting!"
The vein on Eddard's forehead throbbed visibly.
"Your Grace, the position of Master of Coin is still vacant. You never appointed a replacement after dismissing Petyr."
"The Master of Ships is also absent. Stannis has been sulking on Dragonstone for half a year with no word at all. He might as well be dead—could you at least send someone to check?"
"Dead would be convenient!" Robert waved a hand dismissively.
"I'm going hunting!"
"Then at least appoint someone to keep the ledgers!" Eddard's voice rose. "Tywin took the Westerlands army straight back to Casterly Rock without leaving so much as a word."
"You promised compensation to the Riverlands, but there's still no figure."
"The mess in the Vale hasn't been cleaned up either. The Eyrie was stripped bare—even the servants ran off."
"Harry is barely more than a boy. How is he supposed to hold that castle together? You can't just ignore it!"
Eddard ranted on like a neglected wife. "And my wife's sister—she was supposed to be sent to the Silent Sisters."
"Instead she threw herself from the Moon Door with her child in her arms."
"Catelyn is ill and I haven't even had time to visit her. I'm stuck here cleaning up your mess."
"And another thing—"
Eddard showed no sign of stopping.
Robert listened in silence, letting the storm wash over him.
"Good Ned. My dear brother." Robert's eyes suddenly sparkled with something almost tender. "Meeting you in this life has been my greatest fortune."
"So."
"Eddard Stark."
"I hereby grant you full authority over all these matters."
"You don't even need my seal."
"Do whatever you think is right. If anything goes wrong, I'll bear the blame!"
He patted Eddard's shoulder gently.
"Now can I go hunting?"
Eddard closed his eyes.
He was only in his thirties—still young. He couldn't afford to die of sheer frustration.
In the end, he could only watch a willful back disappear down the corridor.
When it came to doing what he wanted, Robert moved with astonishing speed.
The hunting gear was assembled in almost no time at all.
Renly hovered around the king like an eager squire.
Seizing the moment while Robert was in a good mood, Renly produced an exquisitely carved golden rose pendant with a mischievous grin.
"Brother, what do you think of this girl?"
Robert took it, eyebrow raised. "Who's the chit?"
"The Knight of Flowers' sister," Renly said.
Robert's face fell instantly.
"A Tyrell girl? Forget it. That woman would lose her mind."
He thought for a moment and added, "Tommen doesn't have a match yet. We could consider—"
Renly leaned in, voice low. "Brother, the Tyrells want a queen on the Iron Throne."
"That won't do," Robert shook his head. "Joff and Sansa are already betrothed. Can't go back on that."
Joffrey, who had been quietly checking the crossbow he would use for the hunt, felt his ears twitch at the mention of his name.
Why am I being dragged into this?
He lowered his gaze.
A Tyrell match was out of the question. That family had too many schemes; sleeping at night would never be peaceful.
Besides, the Reach was far too large and powerful.
Marriage alliances were useful, but he preferred to hold such fertile lands directly in his own hands.
Still, it was too early to worry about that.
His eyes swept across the bustling servants and settled on a golden-haired youth.
Lancel Lannister.
His cousin— Cersei's cousin, Robert's squire.
Joffrey frowned slightly.
Robert could not die yet.
If he did, Cersei would push for regency, Tywin would rush back from Casterly Rock, and Eddard would clash with them head-on.
His two uncles would begin plotting in earnest.
Every lord in the realm would start scheming.
Forces across the Narrow Sea would stir as well.
And he—Joffrey—a boy who had not yet built a true power base—would be thrust onto the Iron Throne as everyone's pawn.
"Who rules this city?"
"You or me?"
The situation could not be allowed to develop that way.
For now his disguise held. Except for Stannis sulking on Dragonstone, no one spoke of bastards anymore.
That man didn't even trust his own brother; he would simply watch and wait.
Littlefinger—the chaos-maker—was dead. Only Varys remained.
Whether it was Young Griff or Daenerys, the Spider would not act without years of preparation.
Or perhaps he could simply have Jaqen kill him.
The best path was still the safest: wait patiently to inherit power.
Robert hated governing.
In a few more years he would naturally hand all administration over to Joffrey. By then the transition could be smooth and peaceful.
Of course.
Joffrey glanced at Robert, who was laughing with Renly in the distance.
He still felt a complicated emotion toward the man.
He hoped the people around him could all have happy endings.
"Let's go, Joff," Robert beckoned.
Joffrey swung into the saddle and followed the main party out of the city.
Destination: the Kingswood.
The Kingswood was a vast forest south of King's Landing, stretching along Blackwater Bay for thousands of square miles.
Game was plentiful here. Years ago the infamous Brotherhood of the Kingswood had hidden in its depths, kidnapping nobles for ransom.
The Mad King had eventually sent the Kingsguard to wipe them out.
Jaime had fought the Smiling Knight during that campaign.
But that was more than a decade ago. The Kingswood was safe now.
Robert still dragged half the court along with him.
With servants and retainers, the party numbered well over a hundred.
No deeper meaning—just for show.
When Eddard learned of it, he chased them all the way to the gate, cursing Robert and his own parents for six generations.
Robert didn't care in the slightest.
He rode at the head of the column, took a long pull from a wineskin, and began belting out a raucous song.
His only complaint was that the column moved too slowly.
"Joff! Tell the rear to keep up! What the hell are they dawdling for?!"
"And you idiot—give me the wineskin! This one's empty!"
Joffrey rode beside Lancel, his gaze never leaving the wineskin.
Lancel grew visibly uncomfortable under the stare.
"Nephew—Your Grace—" he stammered. "Is there something on my face?"
Joffrey nodded.
He snatched the wineskin, took a sip himself—sharp and fiery—then warned Lancel.
"Switch to lighter wine next time."
He tossed the skin back to Robert.
"You little rascal, sneaking drinks," Robert laughed as he caught it and took a long pull. "What are you thinking about?"
"How to impress you, Father," Joffrey said.
"This is my first real hunt, after all."
Robert glanced at the crossbow in Joffrey's hands. "Impress?"
"Impress means throw that piece of shit away."
Joffrey smiled awkwardly.
The party wandered the Kingswood for several days.
They killed countless rabbits and shot a few ordinary stags, but the legendary white hart remained nowhere to be seen.
Robert began cursing.
"That woman must have lied! There's no white hart—it was just an excuse to get me out of the city!"
Yet as they pushed through a dense thicket, Joffrey suddenly caught a flash of white ahead.
"Father!"
Robert followed his pointing finger and his eyes lit up.
"Come with me." He lowered his voice, dismounted quietly, and began creeping forward. "The rest of you stay back!"
Joffrey followed close behind.
They parted the final screen of bushes.
In the clearing stood a magnificent white stag, its coat pure as fresh snow.
Around it, seven or eight gray wolves circled slowly, closing in.
Robert raised his bow, then lowered it again.
"Joff, you take the shot."
Joffrey lifted his crossbow and took aim.
Twang!
The bolt whistled through the air and buried itself in a tree well wide of the mark.
The wolves scattered in alarm.
"What the hell are you aiming at?!" Robert jumped up. "You missed by half the Narrow Sea!"
But Joffrey had missed on purpose.
He had no time to explain.
He simply extended his hand and gently reached out with that strange new sensation.
Then he walked slowly toward the white stag.
One step. Two. Three.
Robert stopped jumping and cursing. The words died in his throat.
The stag did not flee.
It stood motionless, regarding the approaching boy with large, dark eyes.
Then it lowered its head and gently brushed its muzzle against Joffrey's palm.
After that—
It knelt.
It laid its magnificent antlered head softly beside Joffrey's hand.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves, bathing the boy and the stag in a pure golden-white glow.
The retainers who had just caught up froze where they stood.
No one spoke.
No one breathed.
Only the wind rustled through the leaves.
Then someone whispered in awe:
"Gods be good…"