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Ned Stark sat beside Robert in the feast hall, sweat already beading on his brow as he stared down at the plate of glistening, sauce-coated wings.
They were having a feast in celebration of the prince's first victory in battle, though why the prince was the one to cook for the feast was beyond the Lord of Winterfell.
But Robert, the king, allowed it, so no one could do or say anything about it, lest they earn his ire, which nobody but the Greyjoys seemed to want.
Ned had faced many challenges in his life; he had charged into battle at the Trident with Ice in his hands, and he had stared into the eyes of death more times than he cared to count.
Yet nothing in his life had prepared him for this.
The king, red-faced and sweating just like him, was grinning like a madman, slammed a meaty fist on the table, and howled with laughter.
"Look at him! The great Ned Stark, the man who stared down the Mad King's armies, was brought low by a chicken wing!"
Ned tried, valiantly, to maintain his usual stoic dignity. He attempted a frown, a dry rebuke worthy of the Lord of Winterfell. Instead, all that escaped was a strangled wheeze as another wave of fire rolled across his tongue and down his throat.
These "Hot wings" were unlike anything he had ever tasted before.
The heat was vicious, sharp, relentless, building with every bite like a slow-burning wildfire in his mouth. His lips felt swollen, his nose ran, and his entire mouth had become a battlefield of spice.
But beneath the inferno, there was an addictive, savory richness and a flavor that made him keep reaching for the next piece even as his eyes watered and his throat burned.
It tasted absolutely divine, and it made the burning in his mouth all worth it.
Robert laughed harder, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes even as he too reached for another wing.
"Seven hells, Ned, your face! If only I could have this moment painted, I'd hang it where I could look upon it whenever I needed a good laugh!"
Ned tried to speak, to tell his old friend exactly where he could shove his laughter, but the burning made it impossible. All he managed was a hoarse, pained sound that only made Robert laugh louder.
Across the table, the prince sat calmly, wiping his mouth on a cloth with the serene composure of someone who had not just set more than half the people in the castle on fire from the inside.
His eyes, hidden behind his blindfold, sparkled with quiet amusement.
"I did warn you, Lord Stark," the prince said mildly, though the corner of his lips twitched.
It was true, the lad did warn that he might not handle what he made, but his pride and desire to try the cooking Robert kept bragging about would not hear of it.
"They're called Hot wings for a reason, my lord. I'm just surprised my father's on his fifth plate when I've seen most of our men quit at one."
Ned barely heard him as he chugged his water, having learned the hard way that alcohol just made the spice worse. How Robert's son looked completely fine despite eating just as much as his father was beyond him.
Robert let out another booming laugh, wiping sauce from his beard with the back of his hand.
"Seventh and still going! These "Hot wings" you made are just as good as fried chicken, if not better! Seven hells, son! If you keep feeding me like this, I'll die happy and fat!"
Ned finally managed to finish the last piece of chicken on his plate, gasping as he reached for another cup of water. The cool liquid offered only temporary mercy; the spice roared back stronger a moment later, making his eyes water even more.
"Gods…" he rasped, voice hoarse and raw as he desperately beckoned for a refill. "What manner of chicken is this? It feels like I swallowed dragonfire."
The prince simply shrugged, a small, innocent smile on his face. "Just a little something I've been experimenting with. Peppers from the Summer Isles, ground with butter and a few other things."
Robert snorted as he licked his sauce-covered fingers clean. "Harmless, he says. I've seen men face death with less fear than you're showing right now, Ned."
Ned shot his old friend with a look that was somewhat ruined by the fact that his face was still flushed crimson and his eyes were streaming. "At least I'm not sweating while claiming victory over poultry."
That only made Robert laugh harder, the sound rolling through the room like thunder.
Ned stared down at the bones on his plate, torn between the burning agony in his mouth and the strange, addictive flavor that made him want to keep eating anyway.
A reluctant, pained chuckle finally escaped him.
"By the gods," he muttered, shaking his head. "Your son is going to kill us all with his food before the Ironborn ever get the chance."
Robert grinned widely, raising his own cup in a toast. "To my boy, and to the only weapon in this war that can make Ned Stark sweat!"
Cheers erupted as everyone raised their cups, even if most of them were currently suffering, and toasted.
The prince smirked at Ned as he raised his cup before handing him another plate full of chicken.
And Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, silently swore that the next time the prince offered him "mild" food, he would run.
The feast soon came to an end, however, as the servants began to pick up the dishes and clean the hall of all the messes made.
Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon walked side by side through the outer courtyard of the castle, the afternoon sun warm on their faces.
They passed by servants clearing the remains of the feast behind them, platters of bones, empty cups, and the lingering scent of spice still hanging in the air.
Both men moved with the easy familiarity of old friends who were raised together and once bled on the same battlefield. The years may have changed them, but their friendship still remained strong despite everything that happened.
Robert let out a long, satisfied belch and clapped a heavy hand on Ned's shoulder.
"Seven hells, Ned. I haven't seen you turn that shade of red since we were boys in the Vale and you tried to outdrink me on your nameday."
Ned gave a dry huff, though his throat still burned faintly. "Aye, I remember that. I woke up feeling as though someone had taken an axe to my head. It didn't help that you were snoring louder than a war drum."
Robert barked a laugh, the sound booming across the yard. "Gods, those were the days! Just you and me with not a care in the world…"
They walked in companionable silence for a moment, the distant sounds of the camp, horses being tended, men sharpening blades, the loud shouts of soldiers, filling the air around them.
"…How have you been?" Robert asked after a while, his voice losing some of its usual bluster. "It's been too long since we last spoke like this."
And wasn't that the bitter truth of it? He could still remember the moment, the way the words had reached him, cold and full of cruel delight, and the fury that had soon followed.
Ned had not stayed to hear another breath; he had turned and stormed from the Red Keep, rage burning in his chest, the horror of what had been done to Elia and her children echoing in his mind with every step.
The lord of the north shook his head away from that dark memory, his expression softened as he looked out toward the horizon, to happier thoughts.
"Life has been good to me," He paused, a rare fondness warming his grey eyes. "The children are growing with each passing day. My boys are becoming fine young men, strong, honorable, better men than I will ever be, and my daughter, a beautiful young lady, dreams of songs and knights always asking the septas to read her stories."
A small, quiet smile touched Ned's lips as his friend walked beside him.
"And Catelyn… She and I are better than when we started. While I cannot say with certainty what she feels towards me, I've grown to love her."
Robert nodded, listening without his usual interruptions. There was a look of understanding in his gaze as he talked about his sons.
"Sounds like you got the life you deserved after all the shit that happened. A good wife and strong children, instead of endless bloody councils and a bitch of a wife." The king shook his head as he gruffly grumbled out.
It seemed his old friend wasn't handling being a king well.
"As for me… being king is a pain in the arse. I never wanted the damn throne, you know that. All I wanted was to smash Rhaegar's pretty face and get my Lyanna back. Instead, I'm stuck listening to lords whine about taxes, listening to Jon Arryn lecture me about my kingly duty, and watching my slimy Small Council play a stupid game like the cunts they are."
Robert spat on the ground as if what he said alone left a dirty taste in his mouth.
"I leave most of the kingdom-running to Jon; he's better at that shit than I ever was. All I do these days is hunt, drink, eat, and fuck! Trying to remember what it felt like to be young and free instead of chained to that ugly piece of shit iron chair!!!"
He fell quiet for a moment as he let out all his grievances to his brother in all but blood, as he took a deep breath and some time to gather himself.
Then, slowly, his entire face brightened, the weariness lifting like clouds parting.
"But my son!" Robert's voice grew warmer, and his eyes held real fatherly love. "Gods, Ned! You should've been there! I will forget a thousand battles before I forget that moment, the day the Seven gave me back my son and blessed his eyes!"
The way his king spoke was completely different from his usual self. It was as if he were back at that very moment, experiencing it all over again.
Ned might have been skeptical if this came from anyone else, even a king, but this was Robert Baratheon, who would sooner choke people with the truth than let them swallow pretty lies.
His friend had never been a man for embellishment. He was blunt as a warhammer, honest to a fault, and far too impatient for the careful weaving of falsehoods.
It also greatly helped that he witnessed what the Blessed prince could do firsthand the day the lad came to his and his men's aid.
He would never forget the day lightning, not a spark, not some trick of light, but true, roaring lightning, screaming through the air as if the heavens themselves had answered his call, flew from the prince's sword and slaughtered a group of men in an instant.
Nor would he forget what came after. The moment he witnessed the prince performing a miracle.
In that same battlefield, still reeking of blood and death, was bathed in a gentle, impossible glow as holy light poured forth from the prince's hands, mending flesh, knitting bone, and silencing pain as if it had never been.
Destruction and salvation, both wielded by the same hand belonging to the future king.
No man who had stood there could ever doubt what they had witnessed, and more than a few of his men converted that day.
Robert shook his head, a proud, almost disbelieving smile spreading across his face.
Ned looked at his old friend, noting the genuine pride and relief in Robert's voice as he spoke, as he wrapped his beefy arms around his shoulder.
"He's going to be a better king than I ever was, I can promise you that! Probably bring an era of prosperity or whatever bloody fuck the bards are going to call it!"
Stark smiled as he shook his head. It was strange seeing his whoremongering friend acting as a father, but he was happy for him.
"Father! Lord Stark!" The prince called out from behind them, interrupting their conversation and stroll.
Both men halted and turned towards him, wondering what was wrong as they could hear the emergency in his voice.
The prince's steps measured despite the heavy air that clung to him. The blindfold covered his eyes, yet there was no mistaking the tension in his posture, shoulders squared, jaw set. In one hand, he held an open letter, the parchment slightly creased from his grip.
Robert clapped a hand on his son's shoulder.
"What's wrong, lad?" He asked, his eyes full of worry as he looked at his son up and down.
The prince's expression remained grave, the usual spark of quiet amusement absent. "I saw something troubling while looking toward Seagard."
Ned's brow furrowed immediately, the remnants of spice in his throat forgotten. "What did you see?"
"Greyjoy Longships," the prince replied, his tone steady yet edged with urgency. "Dozens of them cutting across the sea, sails dark against the waves, and on the shores near Seagard, the Ironborn are collecting supplies, crates, barrels, weapons. I believe the Greyjoys are sending more men and resources to hold Seagard."
Robert's good mood faded, replaced by a deep scowl that creased his broad face. He exchanged a glance with Ned, the easy camaraderie of moments ago evaporating.
"Bloody squid bastards!" he growled out, full of barely held back rage. "They mean to dig in deeper. If they reinforce Seagard now, it'll be harder to take it back before! The riverlords won't thank us for letting those reavers dig their claws in any tighter, and worst of all, they still have my fucking brother!"
Ned nodded grimly in agreement, his hands in a tight fist as if the Ironborn might appear on the horizon that very instant. "It changes the timing of any assault. We cannot let them consolidate. If Balon thinks he can turn the western coast into another Iron Islands…"
Stark remained silent for a beat, letting the implications settle like stones in still water. Then Robert's gaze dropped to the letter clutched in his son's hand.
"What's that you've got there, lad? More terrible news?"
The prince's frown deepened, a shadow crossing his features that made him look even more grim.
He did not answer with words. Instead, he extended the letter toward his father.
Robert took it with a grunt, unfolding the letter with thick fingers. His eyes scanned the lines, brow furrowing in confusion at first.
"What in the seven hells? This says the Ironborn are holding Stannis at-" He stopped, reading further, his face shifting from puzzlement to realization.
Ned took the letter from his hands and realized it at the same moment as the king.
Someone sent them the location of where the Ironborn were keeping Stannis. The location was clear: a ship along the western shores, guarded heavily by Greyjoy men, far from the main fighting.
"Where did you-"
"How did you-"
Before either man could press further or voice the surge of questions of how the prince got the letter, who had sent it, whether it was a trap or the truth, horns blared across the camp.
Sharp, urgent blasts echoed from the watchtowers and outer walls, cutting through the afternoon air like a thunderclap.
Shouts rose immediately, men scrambling to arms as runners burst into the courtyard.
"Lannisters!" one called, voice hoarse as they shouted for all to head. "Lannister banners on the eastern road!"
Robert's and Ned's heads snapped up, the letter momentarily forgotten as they heard the shouts of who was approaching.
"Lannister?" Robert barked a laugh that held no humor. "The old lion finally crawls out of his den. Seven hells, what timing."
The king looked at his son, studying the young man's still grave expression for a long moment. Then, with a rough edge to his voice that mixed reluctant acceptance and fatherly concern, he asked.
"Are you ready to meet your grandfather, son?"
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The march was long and arduous, each step grinding against bone and will alike, yet the cold rage burning within Tywin Lannister did not so much as flicker.
A Lannister always pays his debts, and this debt he would repay a thousandfold!
To strike at Lannisport and lay waste to his ships was an insult carved in fire, a humiliation that would not go unanswered.
"You seem to be in a good mood today, Father." A casual voice cut through his murderous thoughts, causing his mood to worsen even further. "Thinking about murdering the Greyjoys again, are we?"
Tywin did not slow, did not turn. The rhythm of marching hoofs and the creak of leather filled the space between them, as cold and measured as the man at its center.
"Don't ask dull questions to get a rise out of me," Tywin said at last, his words even. "What is it that you want?"
"Just wondering why you're taking me along on your little march to war instead of leaving me at Casterly Rock is all."
Tywin's gaze remained fixed ahead, unblinking, as though the horizon itself had earned his scrutiny.
"I do not trust you out of my sight," he said plainly.
The words settled between them, heavier than any shouted accusation. He finally turned his head, just enough for a sliver of his cold green eyes to fall upon his child.
"You will remain where I can see you. Where I can account for every move you make."
The hoofbeats carried on, steady as a drum of war.
"And more importantly," His gaze shifted forward once more."you will serve a purpose."
That got their full attention.
"The Blessed Prince," Tywin said, the title spoken without reverence, only cold calculation. "He has become a problem."
A flicker of disdain crossed his otherwise immovable expression.
"Why Cersei allowed the boy to go to war, I will never know. Clearly, she has lost her senses during her time in Kingslanding."
His fingers tightened slightly on the reins. The boy, blessed or not, was the future of his house!
"I will not have the key to ensure the Lannister legacy dies in a war he has no place taking part in."
Finally, his voice hardened, carrying the full weight of command.
"You will watch him."
It wasn't a request, it was an order.
"I have heard he is closer to his mother and "uncle" than his father, which makes things easier for you to get close to him. You will keep him safe, distracted, contained, whatever it takes, and if he so much as thinks of riding out to play the hero, you will convince him otherwise."
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly at his daughter, whose bangs hid most of her face.
"I care not how you do it."