Chapter 130 127

The Westerlands. Ashemark. 299 AC.

Lord Eddard Stark.

Seated in the spacious chambers of Lord Marbrand, Eddard regarded his freshly trimmed hair with a kind of quiet resignation. Several months of marches, battles, retreats, counterattacks, captivity, and any number of other equally exhausting affairs had left no time to maintain any proper appearance. He had kept himself clean enough, but life on campaign did not lend itself to cleanliness.

In principle, a washed, trimmed, and shaved Lord Eddard Stark ought to look a few years younger for the effort. The threads of grey at his temples suggested otherwise. He was thirty-five years old, a man in his prime, and yet age had already begun to find him.

More than anything, Ned hated wars. They never ended well. Even now this one brought him nothing but trouble: three of his children had recently been held hostage by the lions; an unclear situation in the Vale had put him at odds with his wife; a rift had opened between him and his bannermen; and worst of all, a misunderstanding had grown between himself and Robb, his eldest son and heir, over the matter of King Stannis's character.

For himself Ned had no great worry; a life among soldiers had long since made him comfortable with the suddenness of death. But he was deeply troubled by his children. Robb, buoyed by his successes, had begun taking unnecessary risks far too often. Sansa, Bran, and Elena were guests at the Eyrie, and Ned could not say with any certainty that if things went badly, Axel would not hand the children over to whoever won.

The sticking point, as always, was King Stannis himself. Grim, severe, hard, unyielding, and harsh, the king had not endeared himself to his bannermen. They simply did not understand him, and that made them afraid of him. Only the army's relative successes in the campaign, and Ned Stark's loyalty, which was the true foundation of Stannis's authority, kept the whole thing from falling apart. Stannis understood this. So did Ned, and recently they had devised a way to quiet the lords' discontent.

"What?!" Robb was not prepared for the news. "Marry King Stannis's daughter?"

"Yes. The king has honored us greatly. When Lady Shireen turns fourteen, you will be joined in marriage." Ned said nothing of certain additional provisions; they were not relevant at the moment.

"Why?" Blue eyes fixed on him with an insistence that brooked no evasion.

"Robb, I know the mood of my bannermen. The heaviest burden of this war has fallen on us. Northmen are giving a great deal for this victory, and the king does not scatter rewards, titles, and honors with any generosity. Because neither man understands the other, Stannis does not feel it necessary to make promises, and men who see no concrete future begin to lose their heads." No sign of understanding appeared on his heir's face, and Ned sighed.

He was proud of Robb, deeply so. Over the course of the war his son had shown steadiness of character, strength of will, and moral convictions close to his own. His intelligence and his skill as a commander had earned him the respect and devotion of the northern lords. But as high as Robb's martial abilities were, his diplomatic gifts were just as meager. His heir was still young, and youth made a man shortsighted.

"Every man, whether knight, craftsman, or lord, expects a reward for his efforts. That is the foundation of things. His Grace has not once offered a promise or assurance of any kind, which does nothing for his popularity." Understanding was beginning to show on Robb's face, and Ned pressed on. "People need to see a reward."

"I understand," Robb said, with a grim set to his jaw, and left.

Ned understood perfectly well that a royal marriage was not merely a great honor but a powerful leash that would bind the North and its allies to Stannis's line. It seemed that Renly's presumption in crowning himself had wounded the elder Baratheon more deeply than most had supposed.

Like any soldier, Stannis understood that men died in war, kings included, and had thought ahead. If he fell, most of his bannermen would go over to Renly, and the younger Baratheon, reinvigorated, would bring the war to a quick end and take the crown. That was not an outcome a man of Stannis's pride could accept. A document had been drawn up: Lady Shireen Baratheon was named heir to the throne, Ned was named her regent, and Robb Stark would in time become king-consort. The regency and the marriage would compel the North and its allies to stand to the last in defense of Shireen Baratheon's claim.

A knock at the door.

"My Lord." The door creaked open and Jory Cassel, captain of the Stark guard, stepped inside. "Urgent letters from Darry and from Lady Elena."

Without hesitation Ned read his daughter's letter first. What it contained both unsettled and pleased him in equal measure. Immediately after arriving at the Eyrie, all of Elena's activity had gone quiet, which had led him to dark thoughts. Before long, however, the children had begun sending regular letters through official channels. Elena wrote too, but her letters had touched on nothing of any importance.

Now she wrote that she had entered Axel's service and was sending her wages to Darry for the household to use as it saw fit. Pride and surprise mingled in him, along with a small sadness that he had not managed to settle his daughter's future himself. The gesture of sending the money he found more touching than practical. A handful of gold coins, even a hundred, would be a drop in the sea.

The message from Darry, however, left him entirely at a loss. Ten thousand gold dragons, arrived by ship belonging to the Melcolms; that was something beyond the ordinary. Poor Lyman Darry, left to manage the estate by his father, had not known what to do. A ship had arrived, unloaded the money, established to whom it belonged, left a letter, and sailed away.

It was now clear why Elena had been silent for so long, and why Axel had been so extraordinarily generous. For good or ill, the clever falcon had somehow learned of his daughter's talents.

It was past time to resume their correspondence.