A Game of Thrones Chapter Forty-seven

Eddard He was strolling through the sepulchers underneath Winterfell, as he had strolled a thousand times previously. The Kings of Winter watched him go with eyes of ice, and the direwolves at their feet turned their incredible stone heads and growled. Finally, he went to the tomb where his dad dozed, with Brandon and Lyanna next to him. â€Å"Promise me, Ned,† Lyanna's sculpture murmured. She wore a laurel of light blue roses, and her eyes sobbed blood. Eddard Stark yanked upstanding, his heart dashing, the covers tangled around him. The room was dark as pitch, and somebody was pounding on the entryway. â€Å"Lord Eddard,† a voice called noisily. â€Å"A moment.† Groggy and exposed, he bumbled his way over the obscured chamber. At the point when he opened the entryway, he discovered Tomard with an upraised clench hand, and Cayn with a shape close by. Between them stood the ruler's own steward. The man's face may have been cut of stone, so little did it appear. â€Å"My master Hand,† he articulated. â€Å"His Grace the King orders your essence. At once.† So Robert had come back from his chase. It was long past time. â€Å"I will require a couple of seconds to dress.† Ned left the man holding up without. Cayn helped him with his garments; white cloth tunic and dark shroud, pants chop open down his mortar sheathed leg, his identification of office, and finally a belt of substantial silver connections. He sheathed the Valyrian knife at his midriff. The Red Keep was dim and still as Cayn and Tomard accompanied him over the inward bailey. The moon draped low over the dividers, aging toward full. On the bulwarks, a sentry in a gold shroud strolled his rounds. The regal condos were in Maegor's Holdfast, an enormous square post that settled in the core of the Red Keep behind dividers twelve feet thick and a dry channel fixed with iron spikes, a palace inside a-château. Ser Boros Blount monitored the most distant finish of the extension, white steel defensive layer spooky in the twilight. Inside, Ned spent two different knights of the Kingsguard; Ser Preston Greenfield remained at the base of the means, and Ser Barristan Selmy held up at the entryway of the ruler's bedchamber. Three men in white shrouds, he thought, recalling, and a weird chill experienced him. Ser Barristan's face was as pale as his protective layer. Ned had distinctly to see him to realize that something was awfully off-base. The illustrious steward opened the entryway. â€Å"Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King,† he declared. â€Å"Bring him here,† Robert's voice called, abnormally thick. Flames blasted in the twin hearths at either end of the bedchamber, occupying the stay with a morose red glare. The warmth inside was choking. Robert lay over the canopied bed. At the bedside floated Grand Maester Pycelle, while Lord Renly paced eagerly before the covered windows. Hirelings moved to and fro, taking care of logs to the fire and bubbling wine. Cersei Lannister sat on the edge of the bed adjacent to her significant other. Her hair was tousled, as though from rest, yet there was nothing lethargic in her eyes. They followed Ned as Tomard and Cayn helped him cross the room. He appeared to move gradually, as though he were all the while dreaming. The ruler despite everything wore his boots. Ned could see dried mud and pieces of sod sticking to the cowhide where Robert's feet stood out underneath the cover that secured him, A green doublet lay on the floor, cut open and disposed of, the fabric crusted with red-earthy colored stains. The room resembled smoke and blood and demise. â€Å"Ned,† the ruler murmured when he saw him. His face was pale as milk. â€Å"Come . . . closer.† His men brought him close. Ned steadied himself with a hand on the bedpost. He had distinctly to look down at Robert to realize how awful it was. â€Å"What . . . ?† he started, his throat grasped. â€Å"A boar.† Lord Renly was still in his chasing greens, his shroud splashed with blood. â€Å"A devil,† the ruler husked. â€Å"My own deficiency. An excess of wine, damn me to damnation. Missed my thrust.† â€Å"And where were the remainder of you?† Ned requested of Lord Renly. â€Å"Where was Ser Barristan and the Kingsguard?† Renly's mouth jerked. â€Å"My sibling directed us to stand aside and let him take the pig alone.† Eddard Stark lifted the cover. They had done what they could to shut him down, yet it was not even close to enough. The hog more likely than not been a fearsome thing. It had torn the ruler from crotch to areola with its tusks. The wine-splashed wraps that Grand Maester Pycelle had applied were at that point dark with blood, and the smell off the injury was ugly. Ned's stomach turned. He let the sweeping fall. â€Å"Stinks,† Robert said. â€Å"The smell of death, don't figure I can't smell it. Charlatan benefited me, eh? In any case, I . . . I repaid him in kind, Ned.† The lord's grin was as horrible as his injury, his teeth red. â€Å"Drove a blade directly through his eye. Inquire as to whether I didn't. Ask them.† â€Å"Truly,† Lord Renly mumbled. â€Å"We carried the cadaver back with us, at my sibling's command.† â€Å"For the feast,† Robert murmured. â€Å"Now leave us. The part of you. I have to talk with Ned.† â€Å"Robert, my sweet ruler . . . † Cersei started. â€Å"I said leave,† Robert demanded with a trace of his old furiousness. â€Å"What some portion of that don't you comprehend, woman?† Cersei got together her skirts and her nobility and drove the path to the entryway. Ruler Renly and the others followed. Amazing Maester Pycelle waited, his hands shaking as he offered the lord a cup of thick white fluid. â€Å"The milk of the poppy, Your Grace,† he said. â€Å"Drink. For your pain.† Robert thumped the cup away with the rear of his hand. â€Å"Away with you. I'll rest soon enough, old blockhead. Get out.† Great Maester Pycelle gave Ned a stricken look as he rearranged from the room. â€Å"Damn you, Robert,† Ned said when they were separated from everyone else. His leg was throbbing so severely he was practically visually impaired with torment. Or on the other hand maybe it was anguish that misted his eyes. He brought himself down to the bed, adjacent to his companion. â€Å"Why do you generally need to be so headstrong?† â€Å"Ah, screw you, Ned,† the ruler said dryly. â€Å"I slaughtered the charlatan, didn't I?† A lock of tangled dark hair fell over his eyes as he glared up at Ned. â€Å"Ought to do likewise for you. Can't leave a man to chase in harmony. Ser Robar discovered me. Gregor's head. Monstrous idea. Never told the Hound. Let Cersei shock him.† His chuckle transformed into a snort as a fit of torment hit him. â€Å"Gods have mercy,† he murmured, gulping his desolation. â€Å"The young lady. Daenerys. Just a kid, you were correct . . . that is the reason, the young lady . . . the divine beings sent the hog . . . sent to rebuff me . . .† The lord hacked, raising blood. â€Å"Wrong, it wasn't right, I . . . just a young lady . . . Varys, Littlefinger, even my sibling . . . useless . . . nobody to let me know no however you, Ned . . . just you . . . † He lifted his hand, the signal tormented and weak. â€Å"Paper and ink. There, on the table. Compose what I tell you.† Ned streamlined the paper over his knee and took up the plume. â€Å"At your order, Your Grace.† â€Å"This is the will and expression of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and all the restâ€put in the damn titles, you know how it goes. I do thus order Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, to fill in as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my . . . upon my passing . . . to control in my . . . in my stead, until my child Joffrey comes old enough . . . â€Å" â€Å"Robert . . . † Joffrey isn't your child, he needed to state, however the words would not come. The anguish was composed too evidently over Robert's face; he was unable to hurt him more. So Ned twisted his head and composed, yet where the lord had said â€Å"my child Joffrey,† he scribbled â€Å"my heir†. The misdirection caused him to feel dirtied. The untruths we tell for affection, he thought. May the divine beings pardon me. â€Å"What else would you have me say?† â€Å"Say . . . whatever you have to. Ensure and guard, divine beings old and new, you have the words. Compose. I'll sign it. You offer it to the gathering when I'm dead.† â€Å"Robert,† Ned said in a voice thick with distress, â€Å"you must not do this. Try not to bite the dust on me. The domain needs you.† Robert grasped his hand, fingers crushing hard. â€Å"You are . . . such an awful liar, Ned Stark,† he said through his torment. â€Å"The domain . . . the domain knows . . . what a pitiful ruler I've been. Awful as Aerys, the divine beings save me.† â€Å"No,† Ned told his perishing companion, â€Å"not so terrible as Aerys, Your Grace. Not close so awful as Aerys.† Robert dealt with a frail red grin. â€Å"At the least, they will say . . . this last thing . . . this I did well. You won't bomb me. You'll lead now. You'll detest it, more terrible than I did . . . in any case, you'll progress nicely. Are you finished with the scribbling?† â€Å"Yes, Your Grace.† Ned offered Robert the paper. The ruler scribbled his mark indiscriminately, leaving a smear of blood over the letter. â€Å"The seal ought to be witnessed.† â€Å"Serve the pig at my burial service feast,† Robert grated. â€Å"Apple in its mouth, skin singed fresh. Eat the knave. Couldn't care less on the off chance that you gag on him. Guarantee me, Ned.† â€Å"I promise.† Promise me, Ned, Lyanna's voice resounded. â€Å"The girl,† the lord said. â€Å"Daenerys. Allow her to live. On the off chance that you can, on the off chance that it . . . not very late . . . converse with them . . . Varys, Littlefinger . . . try not to let them slaughter her. Also, help my child, Ned. Cause him to be . . . better than me.† He flinched. â€Å"Gods have mercy.† â€Å"They will, my friend,† Ned said. â€Å"They will.† The ruler shut his eyes and appeared to unwind. â€Å"Killed by a pig,† he murmured. â€Å"Ought to giggle, however it hu