Game of Thrones Iron Stark

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Robert and Ned sat at a rough wooden table in the Kingswood, surrounded by Kingsguard and a handful of other knights. Beric Dondarrion, the Lightning Lord, stood nearby with his easy smile. Thoros of Myr, red robes still stained from old battles, cleaned his blade. Anguy, the tourney's champion archer, tested his bowstring.

The forest was quiet for now. Scouts had gone ahead looking for big game.

Robert tore into a roasted pig's foot and grinned at Ned. "That Deputy Hand idea wasn't yours, was it? Come on, Ned. I know you. You couldn't have thought that up in a hundred years."

Ned took a slow drink of wine. "It was Tony's suggestion, Your Grace. He didn't offer it to weaken the crown. He offered it to strengthen it."

Robert barked a laugh and washed the meat down with more wine. "Strengthen it how? One extra Hand doesn't make me stronger."

"Because the Hand's power is split in two now," Ned said. "One man held too much before. Now there are two. The king still holds the final word, but no single Hand can stand against him the way one man could before."

Robert stared at him for a second, then roared with laughter. "Brandon Stark had a clever bastard. 'Beget sons like Tony,' they should say."

A cold wind moved through the trees. Leaves drifted down in red, gold, and brown, carpeting the ground like something out of a song. No princes or princesses here. Only a king and his knights.

Three white-cloaked Kingsguard rode in fast and dropped to one knee in front of Robert.

"Your Grace. My lord Hand. We found something."

Robert wiped grease from his beard. "A boar?"

"No, Your Grace. A white stag."

Robert's cup hit the ground and rolled. He didn't even look at it.

A white stag. The old stories said a white hart appeared when the gods chose a true king. Robert's sigil was the crowned stag. If he took a white one alive, it would be proof the gods favored House Baratheon over any Targaryen ghosts still dreaming of dragons.

Ned spoke quietly. "We should take it alive, Your Grace. Keep it. Let every lord see it."

Robert nodded slowly, eyes still bright with the idea. "We didn't bring hounds. Tracking it won't be easy."

"We have better than hounds," Ned said. "Sansa and Arya's direwolves are in the city. Set them on the scent and we'll find it before nightfall."

Robert's grin came back full force. "You're using your daughters' wolves to catch my royal beast? Fine. If they help bring it in alive, I'll grant whatever you ask. Even a marriage or two. You've got six children, I've got three. Plenty to go around."

At Winterfell the complaints kept coming.

Wildlings who had slipped past the Wall were raiding farms and killing livestock. One woman stood in front of Robb with tears on her face. "They killed my horse and my boy, my lord. The horse belonged to the Watch."

Robb listened to every story. He sent more guards north every day. The castle's own defenses grew thinner with each group that rode out.

When the last petitioner left, Robb walked to the yard where Bran practiced archery under Maester Luwin's eye and Theon shot at the targets.

"Robb!" Bran called the moment he saw him. "Can we go hunting? Please?"

Robb looked at the darkening sky. "It's late. If we don't find anything quick we turn back."

Theon was already slinging a full quiver over his shoulder.

They rode out together as the light faded.

Beyond the Wall a small band of wildlings who had survived the climb crouched in the snow. Most of their companions had fallen to their deaths on the way over.

One man stood up. "I'm done. I'm heading south. All the way to Dorne. Mance can rot."

Osha drove her knife into his back without hesitation. He dropped face-first into the snow.

"We are not cannibals," she said to the others. "But we still have rules. We scout. We report. Then we decide. Anyone who runs dies."

The remaining wildlings lowered their eyes.

Atop the Wall Jon Snow's ranging party moved through the trees on the far side using the maneuvering rigs. The wildlings below never saw them coming until it was too late.

"Wildlings!" one of the brothers shouted from below.

Jon gave the order. "Take them. Send whatever's left back where they belong."

He led the charge. The first wildling to look up saw only a flash of steel in the cold air.

His head came off cleanly and tumbled over the edge of the Wall, falling into the snow on the far side.