Chapter 259: A Good Brother’s Fading Glare

King Robert had not visited a brothel in over three months, a personal record since he had seized the Iron Throne.

His current swordsmanship could be described in two words: Painful and weak.

In those months, Robert had begun dieting and devoted time every day to practicing his skills as king. He had the best resources at his disposal, including the Kingsguard as his sparring partners. Shrewdly, Robert chose Jaime as his primary opponent.

To Jaime, Robert's movements were slow and clumsy. His strength was still formidable, but his speed and consistency were severely lacking. All of this was due to his bloated body.

With a loud clang, their swords clashed, reverberating through the training yard.

"Ah! Damn it!" Robert cursed, his wrist trembling from the impact, a stark reminder of his long absence from battle.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I—" Jaime began to apologize, but Robert cut him off.

"None of your business!" Robert growled, knowing that in moments of weakness, he could not afford to appear vulnerable. He waved his hand, signaling for a break.

The guards quickly brought over a special wide chair, so large it took two men to lift it. Robert collapsed into it, sweat pouring down his face like rain. A handmaiden rushed forward with a warm towel to wipe it away.

"Damn fools, can't they get some ice water?" Robert grumbled, his body radiating heat. He craved a glass of iced mead.

"No ice water!"

The stern voice belonged to Ned. Jaime bowed and stepped aside at the sight of him.

"Stand away!" Robert barked, irritation flaring. The Kingsguard were supposed to be his most trusted men, yet here he was, dismissing Jaime as if he were an inconvenience. "Yes, Your Grace," Jaime replied, retreating from the lists.

"Ned, sit down," Robert said, motioning to the chair beside him.

Ned took a seat in a normal-sized chair and looked at his old friend. "You can't drink ice water. You'll get sick." As a northerner, Ned knew well that after strenuous exercise, one had to allow their body temperature to drop gradually, especially in colder climates.

During their recent meetings, Ned had noticed that Robert had indeed lost some weight, but years of indulgence had left their mark. Ten years of excess couldn't be undone in just a few months.

At that moment, Robert stared at the cotton towel in his hands. Ned wondered if he was imagining it, but he saw something in his fearless friend's eyes—worry and fear.

"You know what, Ned?" Robert said suddenly. "I went to the base of the Red Keep the other day, and Balerion's skull is really damn big!"

Ned remained silent, watching as Robert continued talking, almost to himself.

"I remember seeing a dragon skeleton when I was young, but it didn't seem as massive as it does now."

Ned glanced up at the crown stag banner hanging from the battlements. With no wind to lift it, the banner drooped lifelessly.

"But I bet I could shoot down that boy's dragon with a single arrow now. A newly hatched dragon can't be bigger than a kitten, right? It's only been a few months, so... so..." Robert's voice trailed off as his eyes caught sight of a black cat crouching on the wall. The cat was old, about two feet long, and Robert recognized it. Pointing at the creature, he said, "I bet those dragon cubs of his are only as big as that black cat."

Ned followed Robert's gaze and noticed the cat was missing an ear, which reminded him of some rumors. He quickly dismissed them as nonsense. 'After all, how could a cat live that long?'

"Almost 200,000 troops." Robert's tone shifted, his voice taking on a self-reassuring edge. "Ned, I've never led such a large army before, but I think we can at least capture the Stepstones without any trouble. It's ridiculous that the dragonspawn brat dares to call himself emperor."

Robert seemed to be trying to bolster his own confidence, emphasizing "two hundred thousand" as if the number alone could steady his nerves.

Suddenly, he stood up and grabbed his pointed battle hammer from beside him—the very hammer with which he had killed Rhaegar. Although Robert hadn't wielded it in years, the servants had kept it polished to a shine.

"Targaryens, I've killed plenty of them before, haha! I wonder how much the boy looks like Rhaegar. I heard he's even a champion!" Robert laughed, but it was a hollow sound, tinged with old memories.

From the moment Ned arrived, Robert had been talking to himself, lost in his thoughts.

"Pfft, wasn't Rhaegar a champion too? These brothers are exactly the same!" Robert swung his hammer as if he were back on the battlefield at the Trident.

"Your Grace, who should command the fleet this time?" Ned asked, trying to bring Robert back to the matter at hand.

"You decide that," Robert replied dismissively. "Just don't let that old fool Tywin have it." Despite everything, Robert still didn't fully trust Tywin, even though he was one of the few men he should rely on.

Ned knew that Robert was only fit to be a figurehead at this point; asking him to do anything more was beyond his capacity.

The best outcome for the War of the Stepstones would be to capture the islands and kill the last two Targaryens. That would secure Robert's rule once and for all. A less favorable outcome would be if they failed to eliminate Viserys and Daenerys but managed to take Tyrosh, which would at least buy them some time to stabilize the situation internally.

The worst outcome, however, would be a defeat. If that happened, the Seven Kingdoms would fracture beyond imagination. Dorne and Highgarden would be the first to break with the Iron Throne, followed by unrest within the other five kingdoms. Vassals would begin to defy the king's commands, and some might even openly side with Viserys.

If it came to that, none of the Baratheons, Arryns, Tullys, Starks, or Lannisters would escape unscathed.

...

The Tower of the Hand

Arriving here, Ned remembered that Viserys had once beheaded many people and built a tower with their heads.

Pushing these grim thoughts aside, Ned left Robert and headed back to the Tower of the Hand. The tower had a large hall, used exclusively for meetings between the Hand and his advisers. In the center stood a long table that could seat more than twenty people.

As Ned approached the Tower of the Hand, a familiar figure caught his eye.

"Lord Petyr."

Littlefinger had recently been scolded by Robert for the kingdom's mounting debts. But with few trustworthy allies at hand, Ned had little choice but to keep him in his service, despite his misgivings. Littlefinger was no longer the cunning manipulator he once was, yet he still held a position of influence.

"Lord Hand, Lady Catelyn is here," Littlefinger said, his voice smooth, but his eyes wary.