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GOT Chapter 71: The Question of an Heir
🕑 Added 2025-08-14 02:42:06 +0000 UTCBut while the king was flushed with excitement, eager for battle, the worry on the Lord of Winterfell’s face did not fade in the slightest.
But while the king was flushed with excitement, eager for battle, the worry on the Lord of Winterfell’s face did not fade in the slightest.
Seeing this, Robert was forced to rein in his enthusiasm, his grip easing as he gave Stark’s shoulder a more measured, almost consoling pat.
“I know, Ned. I’ve had news as well—"
"Believe me, my concern is no less than yours.”
Eddard Stark could only let out a sigh at the king’s words, shaking his head with a bitter look.
“This isn’t about you, Your Grace. No one could have imagined Tywin Lannister would go so mad.”
“No one could have foreseen he’d dare such a thing—”
There was worry in Eddard’s voice, but none of it was directed at Robert.
Yet at those words, the king’s smile darkened, and a cold snort escaped him.
“That old lion’s only afraid I’ll take his head!” Robert snarled through clenched teeth.
“The more he tries to stop me, the more determined I am to hack it off."
"And I’ll mount it on a spear, set it above the city gates, and let every passerby spit on it!”
Faced with Robert’s furious curses, Stark could only sigh in quiet resignation.
Hearing that sigh, Robert shut his mouth—his bluster less righteous fury than a show meant to comfort his friend.
Abandoning the act, he frowned and asked, “How’s Catelyn?”
“She’s fine—just overly worried. Maester Luwin has already seen to her.”
Robert’s fist clenched tight at the answer.
“Damn Tywin—that bastard even dared to take the offensive!"
"The man’s gone completely mad!”
At the outburst, Eddard Stark simply shook his head.
“Not only that, Your Grace—judging from the route of his march, it seems he has other designs. That’s why we must move faster. We have no more time to waste—”
“We can’t gamble on what a madman might do.”
The past few days had clearly been wearing hard on the Lord of Winterfell.
At those words, Robert arched a brow. “Then we leave tomorrow—full speed.”
“Of course. I’ve already made arrangements; part of the army will march ahead today.”
“And you say you’re not in a hurry!”
“Ah—”
“All right, enough sighing. You and I both know that old lion isn’t truly a fool. He just wants more leverage for the bargaining table, that’s all.”
With that, Robert waved a hand, unwilling to dwell on the sour subject any longer.
He turned instead toward the window, where a scene both familiar and unfamiliar was unfolding.
Pointing with one hand, he indicated a figure in the yard—his bastard son, busy at something.
“Ned, you seem quite fond of that rascal. He’s practically become your shadow—you’ll turn into a true direwolf at this rate."
"Anyone who didn’t know better might think he was your own son.”
Seeing Robert deliberately steer the talk toward lighter ground, Eddard set aside his worries and followed his gaze toward the training yard.
“He saved Bran. Nothing I do could repay that debt—it’s only right."
"Besides, I don’t believe for a moment you don’t plan to grant him land. Letting him get an early start on learning how to be a proper lord can’t be a bad thing, can it?”
Ned spoke casually, though a thought seemed to occur to him mid-sentence.
Turning to Robert with a hint of curiosity, he said, “Or don’t tell me you’re planning to legitimize him—and make your first trueborn son a Baratheon?”
At this probing remark from the Lord of Winterfell, Robert rubbed his belly, his brow knitting in sober thought.
After a few seconds of silence, he suddenly turned to his lifelong friend beside him and asked, his tone edged with genuine seriousness: “And what do you think of that?”
When Eddard brought up the matter himself, Robert honestly wasn’t even sure how he felt about it.
Or rather, he had thoughts of his own, but he didn’t dare be certain—didn’t dare to admit them.
So, when Eddard took the initiative to raise the subject, Robert instead chose to turn the question back to his Hand and seek his opinion.
Yet, when Robert heard his jest, he didn’t immediately reject the suggestion—he even went so far as to ask for his view.
What had started as a bit of banter with the King made Eddard Stark abruptly fall silent. His brow furrowed as he gradually sank into thought.
With the question lingering in his mind, his gaze drifted almost unconsciously toward the King’s bastard son, not far away, being trained under his father’s eye. A sudden tangle of emotion knotted in his chest.
His mind was in turmoil.
To tell the truth, as Robert’s not-yet-officially-installed Hand of the King, the Lord of House Stark had indeed given the matter serious thought.
For a king, the question of succession was nothing less than crucial.
Especially now, with Stannis’s letters sent across all Seven Kingdoms—letters that all but proved that Joffrey and his siblings bore no drop of the King’s blood.
In the face of such a sudden turn, Robert’s place on the throne was naturally bound to come under attack.
Having no heir was an extremely grave matter.
One need look no further than the Dance of the Dragons, a mere century past, to see the danger.
And that had happened when an heir existed—only one whose claim was contested.
The greatest cause of that war had been just that.
So when Eddard raised this matter with Robert now, it was far from an idle jest.
He wanted to test the King’s thoughts on it.
Yet, when his offhand remark about legitimizing Kal Stone’s status slipped out, Robert did not immediately dismiss it.
That meant Robert had indeed thought about it—and was perhaps troubled by it.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t be asking for Eddard’s opinion.
But now that the King had thrown the question back at him, Eddard felt his mind grow heavy, tangled beyond measure.
Emotion and reason clashed fiercely in his head.
He looked at Kal, instructing Jon on how to fight on the battlefield, and the weight in his expression was almost palpable.
Staring at that figure, Eddard parted his lips, as if to speak—
—but in the end, all that came was a sigh.
“Your Grace, as your Hand, I would advise you to consider this matter with the utmost care.”
When he spoke, Eddard kept his head lowered, as if unwilling to meet Robert’s eyes—or those of the bastard out in the training yard.
“So you mean you’d refuse my suggestion? But I think the boy would make a far better king than I ever did!”
Robert’s voice held a note of dissatisfaction.
It seemed Robert hadn’t expected Eddard Stark to reject the proposal. He stared at him for a good five or six seconds, his expression dark, before speaking coldly.
He had thought his closest friend might help steel his resolve—
—but instead, all he’d gotten was a bucket of cold water to the face.
Yet faced with the King’s displeasure, the Lord of House Stark could only bow his head and continue to counsel him, fulfilling the duty expected of him.
“I understand, Your Grace.”
“But I think you should consider more—because you are the King.”
Inwardly, Eddard Stark murmured an apology and chose to stand by his view.
As Robert’s Hand, he had to think further ahead.
Not act on impulse, as Robert so often did.
But the moment the Lord of House Stark said those words, Robert Baratheon’s round face tightened, and he began spitting words as if they were flying out with the spray from his lips.
“Seven hells, that’s what I hate about you lot—you’re always like this! Always!”
“I take it you mean I should find some corner to shove him off to, just to keep him far away from me!”
Then he jabbed a finger toward the south.
“And then I’m supposed to go grubbing through all Seven Kingdoms like some fat swine, hunting for a woman everyone can approve of—so you can strip her bare, scrub her clean, and deliver her to my bed!”
“Then I’m to be a good boy, mount her like a breeding boar, and keep at it until, a year or so later, you so-called fine ministers can all cheer for the birth of the realm’s heir?!”
“And if it’s a girl—still not to your liking—then I’m to repeat the whole damned process, rutting away again?!”
“Is that it?”
“Tell me, Ned—is that what you think too?”
“Or maybe, to make sure this mess never happens again, you as Hand will stand at the bedside counting on your fingers exactly how many thrusts I manage?!”
Robert’s face flushed scarlet as though he’d just imagined it, and in his fury he flailed his arms and showered Eddard with curses.
The Lord of House Stark could only remain silent before the King’s wrath.
He couldn’t say it was wrong—nor could he say it was right.
Just as, in his role as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, his station forced him to think beyond the moment.
And that was why he had never wanted to follow Robert south.
That warm, sun-drenched land had never suited him, from the very beginning.
But when Robert saw him silent, looking for all the world as though he agreed, the King grew even angrier.
Robert thrust out a hand this time, pointing toward the yard outside the window, where a young man stood holding a gilded longsword and speaking to a fully armed opponent. His anger spilled out without restraint.
“And that damned little bastard—he’s cut down three of my Kingsguard, nearly half of them!”
“But he just walks away without a care!”
“And what’s he doing now? Nothing—he’s never even asked me for anything!”
“All he does is trail after you every day, learning how to be a proper lord?!”
“A lord? Seven hells, he’s barely fit to be one!”
“He will be your most loyal bannerman, Your Grace,” Eddard said, holding his ground against Robert’s fury.
After a brief pause, he added, “And so will I.”
That quiet “retort” from his dearest friend brought Robert’s tirade to an abrupt halt.
But then, seething again, he jabbed a finger into Eddard’s chest before pointing once more toward Kal Stone outside.
“Yes, you’re all loyal!”
“This realm has no disloyal men—just a drift of snowflakes and veiled whispers, every last one of them treating me like some fat swine!”
At that, Robert seemed to recall something that enraged him further.
His eyes went wide, and he fixed Eddard with a glare that grew darker by the heartbeat.
“Or is that what you think too? Tell me, Ned!”
“What—should I wed your daughter? I remember you telling me in the crypts last time that she was only how old?”
“Is that it? Ned—should I call you ‘Father’?!”
“But I’ll tell you this—I’ve always loved a Stark, but her name isn’t Sansa.”
“It’s Lyanna—and you know it well.”
With that burst of venom, Robert seemed wounded to the core. He swept his cloak aside, leaving the Lord of House Stark standing there, having taken the brunt of the outburst without reason, and stormed out.
Watching him go, Eddard felt only a deep weariness.
He didn’t bother looking after Robert’s retreating form. He knew his friend’s temper as well as Robert knew his.
Instead, he turned with a troubled face toward the window, looking down into the yard where Jon and Kal had turned their heads at the sound from above.
Gazing at the two bastards below, Eddard Stark’s eyes grew distant, his thoughts unreadable.
Under his breath, he murmured words too soft to catch.
“Jon Arryn… how in the world did you manage this fool—?”
“Jon… Lyanna—”
“Ah…”
