Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 473 The War of the Defenders (Part Six)
Long Night Keep, Robert's room.

Eddard Stark stood outside the door, hesitantly rubbing his red, frozen fingertips. His father's words still echoed in his ears: "Go to Robert's room, and don't tell him I sent you."

The eleven-year-old boy pursed his lips, his gray eyes filled with confusion. He lifted the tent flap, and the sweet aroma of mead and the warmth of the charcoal fire wafted out.

"Ed! My dear brother!"

Before he could even see what was happening inside the tent, a tall figure rushed over like a whirlwind. Robert Baratheon grabbed his shoulder with such force that Eddard stumbled back a couple of steps.

“My good brother! Sit down!” Robert’s blue eyes shone brightly, his cheeks flushed with excitement and the effects of the alcohol. Without a word, he pressed Ed into the bearskin-covered chair and shoved a cup of warm mead into his hand. “Have some to warm yourself up!”

Ed carefully held the cup and took a small sip. It was too sweet, cloyingly sweet. He wasn't used to this southern drink, but Robert was staring at him expectantly, so he took another sip.

“Ned,” Robert suddenly leaned closer, his voice extremely low, as if sharing some earth-shattering secret, “your sister Lyanna.”

Ed's back straightened instantly.

"What flowers does she like?" Robert asked eagerly. "Blue roses? Marigolds? Or...snow lotus?"

Eddard nervously forgot the sweetness in his mouth. Lyanna did indeed like flowers, but not the delicate kind. Her favorite was the winter rose, the wildflower that grew in the cracks of Winterfell's walls, blooming even in the cold wind.

But should he tell Robert?

Lyanna's preferences were private matters and shouldn't be told to others casually, even if he was her sworn brother. The image of Ed, a righteous ally, resonated deeply within him.

Have you forgotten how good Robert was to you? Robert always treated him kindly, taught him swordsmanship, shared stories, and was even the first to rush to his aid when he fell from his horse. Another Ed popped into his mind and shoved the first Ed aside.

The boy forcefully flung both little Eds out of his mind. He had received a political education and had witnessed his brother's rage firsthand. He understood that his father hadn't called him to Robert's place to play.

Ed's gray eyes flickered slightly. He remembered Brandon smashing the wine glass, and the scene when Lyanna calmly said, "The marriage will only benefit us."

"She," Ed began cautiously, "prefers wild flowers. Like the winter snow rose."

Robert sat bolt upright, his eyes wide with shock: "Winter snow rose? You mean the kind that grows in the snow?"

Ed nodded, feeling a pang of regret, unsure whether he had done the right thing or the wrong thing.

But Robert jumped up excitedly and paced back and forth in the tent: "I knew it! She's not the kind of delicate young lady who likes greenhouse flowers! Winter snow roses, perfect! Ed, can you get me some? The prettiest ones, with dew on them! I want to give them to her myself when we get back from the war."

Ed opened his mouth, unsure how to respond. Robert's enthusiasm was like a storm, leaving him bewildered.

“And another thing.” Robert suddenly leaned closer, the smell of alcohol mixed with leather hitting me. “What kind of stories does she like to hear? Knightly tales? Or… uh, adventure stories?”

Ed gripped his cup tightly. Lyanna's favorite things were the ancient Northern legends, stories of direwolves and the First Men. But these were also her most private interests; she would often whisper these tales to the Heart Tree in the Godswood.

"She," Ed hesitated, "doesn't really like the Southern Knights' style."

Robert paused for a moment, then burst into laughter: "Of course! She's a werewolf from the North!" He slapped Ed on the shoulder hard. "Good brother, you've been a huge help!"

Eddard forced a smile, his mind a jumble of emotions. He didn't want to betray his sister, nor did he want to disappoint his sworn brother, and he certainly didn't want to disrupt any political maneuvering his father might be planning. When Robert began pressing Lyanna about her love of music, Eddard finally stood up. "I have to go to training, Robert. I'm heading back to Winterfell after you all leave."

“Wait!” Robert grabbed his sleeve, a rare look of unease on his face. “Edward, do you think Lyanna will hate me? I know I have a bad reputation.”

The boy's gaze was so direct and intense that Ed was momentarily speechless. He recalled Lyanna's words about Robert: "He's like a charging bull, but at least he's not hypocritical."

“No,” Ed finally said, “but she hates being forced.”

Robert smiled with relief: "Don't worry, I'll make her fall in love with me willingly!"

As Ed stepped out of the tent, he let out a long sigh of relief. The cold wind brushed against his cheeks, clearing his feverish head slightly. He didn't know if he had done the right thing or the wrong thing, only that he seemed to have been involved in something extraordinary.

Tywin Lannister's emerald eyes gleamed with a cold, metallic light in the candlelight. The news brought by the Earl of Marble caused him to pause slightly in his golden cup, the liquid leaving a crimson streak on the rim.

"A Baratheon stag is courting a Stark daughter?" His voice was colder than the Blackwater River in winter. "When did this happen?"

“It happened right after tonight’s banquet, my lord,” Marbrand said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “The whole Northern camp is buzzing about it.”

Tywin's fingers tapped lightly on the map of the Seven Kingdoms on the table, drawing an invisible line between Winterfell and Storm's End. This marriage alliance would be like a sword, cleaving Westeros's territory in two.

"Prepare the horses." He suddenly stood up, his cloak billowing behind him like a golden wave. "I want to see Jon Arryn."

But as he rode through the camp, he saw Rickard Stark's figure disappear into the Dornish red-silk tents in the distance. Tywin's lips tightened into a straight line; the Wolf in the North had moved faster than he had anticipated.

The air in Dorne's tent was thick with the scent of sweet perfume. Oberyn Martell lay sprawled on a silk cushion, like a languid serpent. His gaze swept over the direwolf emblem on Rickard's shoulder, and he waved to his son Doran, who stood beside him.

"I'm sorry, Lord Stark, but for some reason I need to excuse myself. Please speak with my heir."

Doran Martell was even thinner than his father, an ebony cane supporting his frail body. “My father meant,” his voice was soft yet carried an undeniable sharpness, “that Dorne will not participate in the games of the North.”

A glint of light flashed in Rickard's grey eyes. He turned to another figure in the shadows of the tent—Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Dawn, whose robes were spotless even in the dim light.

"And what about Prince Dane? Dorne won't send troops, but surely the prince has some advice he can offer us?"

Arthur's purple eyes were like stars at dawn: "Let my eldest son join the vanguard of the Northern Expedition, and I'll pretend I didn't hear your suggestion tonight. Don't forget, Lord Stark, neither silver dragons nor red dragons like their subjects to do things behind their backs."

Rickard slammed his large hand on the silver-inlaid table: "Deal."

As Tywin's squire stealthily followed Roose Bolton to the Tully camp, the deathly pale Earl was adjusting the blood-red skinner emblem on his cuff. The mead before Horst Tully remained untouched, and the Duke of the Riverlands tapped the Tully family's rhythmic cadence on the table.

“Brandon Stark to marry my daughter?” Horst’s eyes gleamed with a trout-like shrewdness. “That depends on what he can bring to the Riverlands.”

Meanwhile, Alf Karstark received a cold shoulder at the Osgrey's camp. Duke Eustace poured him wine like a kind grandfather, but responded to each probing with a knowing smile: "The snow in the North hasn't melted yet, what's the rush?"

(End of this chapter)