Chapter 91 – Northbound
North of King's Landing.
As the carriage rattled along the King's Road, Robert Baratheon lifted the leather flap and gazed out at the bleak landscape stretching ahead.
A sigh escaped him.
When he'd first ridden south from the Eyrie, the trees lining this road had been lush and vibrant, their green leaves glittering in the summer sun.
Now those same leaves were turning yellow, then brown, dropping in drifts that blanketed the road as the carriage wheels cut clean tracks through them.
Winter is coming…
Robert let the curtain fall and looked to his side.
Lyanna Stark lay beside him, bundled beneath thick blankets, breathing softly in sleep.
The words of her House echoed in his mind: Winter Is Coming.
As his father had taught him from boyhood, a lord must read the land like a book.
When the leaves began to turn, the Stormlands had to begin stockpiling grain at once.
Winter in the south was gentler than in the North—but winter in Westeros lasted years.
Robert remembered the last one—seven or eight years ago now.
The cold had lingered almost three years, and though he spent most of that time in the Vale, he'd still seen more than his share of frozen corpses lining the roads.
If this was the South…
What must the North be like?
He had once asked Ned the same question.
"The North's winter," Ned had said quietly, "is like a great beast that hides in the dark. It gives warning before it comes… but many still cannot withstand its jaws."
Robert could see that memory reflected in Ned's grey eyes—fear, yes, but also defiance.
He touched Lyanna's hair lightly, a pained smile tugging his lips.
You were born in that cold, weren't you, little wolf?
He exhaled and looked forward again, though the growing chill in the air gnawed at him.
Father and mother had sailed for Essos.
He was not in the Stormlands to rule.
Would the smallfolk survive the winter without him?
Robert shook the thought away.
Stannis was nearly fourteen.
Cold, humorless, irritating beyond belief—but reliable.
"Not half as good as me," Robert muttered to himself, "but dependable enough."
---
A soft whimper broke the quiet.
"Mm—mmph…"
Robert stiffened.
The sound came from beneath the pile of blankets at the back of the carriage.
He lifted the curtain again to make sure the driver hadn't heard.
The man did not turn his head.
Good.
Robert reached under himself, pulled out a massive iron ladle, and with the smooth efficiency of someone who had done this far too many times, flipped the corner of the blanket.
CLANG.
Silence.
---
Seven save me…
Ser Symond Staunton nearly dropped the reins.
As Lord of Rook's Rest and the realm's Master of Laws, he had never imagined his life would stoop to this indignity—covered in mud, reeking of sweat and horse, clothes tattered beyond shame.
All because they forgot him.
The moment Ser Lance Lot and his men left, Symond had dutifully continued carrying out their diversion—buying every animal carcass the hunters dragged out of the forest to mask their movements.
But the hunters had grown bold—too bold.
Within days, they had stripped the Kingswood nearly bare.
And because Symond had offered too much coin at the start, the 5,000 gold dragons he'd brought were almost entirely gone.
When only a few hundred remained, he'd decided it was time to leave the cursed place.
But no—
The moment they noticed he no longer had armored knights behind him, the hunters rushed him like wolves.
Robbing him.
Beating him.
Stripping him of everything but his muddy clothes.
And so the Master of Laws of the Seven Kingdoms now found himself driving a carriage loaded with a furious northern girl and an unconscious kidnapped prince—
—while Robert Baratheon repeatedly assaulted said prince with a ladle.
Symond clenched his jaw.
Damn that Baratheon boy…
Damn him to the Seven Hells.
He dared not speak it aloud.
Robert Baratheon was dangerous.
Reckless.
Fearless.
Stupid beyond measure.
But gods help him—impossible not to admire in some terrible way.
The poor Master of Laws—alone, filthy, robbed blind in the Kingswood—had long since run out of words to describe his despair.
Yes, the hunters had honored their "promise": after stripping him of every last gold dragon, they left him all the animal carcasses he'd purchased.
How generous.
What in the seven hells was he supposed to do with rotting carcasses?
He was a highborn lord, not a tanner!
Worse—those bastards stole his horse when they left.
To keep himself from starving to death on the road, the once-dignified Lord Symond Staunton, Master of Laws of the Seven Kingdoms, found himself dragging a rickety wooden handcart piled with animal corpses, pushing north one agonizing step at a time.
But the gods weren't done tormenting him.
The beasts of the Kingswood most certainly had not been hunted to extinction—because every foul creature this side of Blackwater Bay seemed to attack Symond on sight.
By the time he staggered back toward King's Landing, his clothes were torn, his arms scratched raw, and his dignity buried somewhere beneath the leaf mold.
And then—of course—just outside the city walls, a naked brigand armed with a half-sword assaulted him without a word.
Symond screamed, pleaded, warned the man he was the Master of Laws—
But the brigand beat him senseless anyway.
Why?
Why would a bandit outside King's Landing beat a man half to death for a pile of stinking carcasses?
Bruised, starving, and thoroughly done with life, Symond woke who-knows-how-much-later, somehow dragged himself to the banks of the Blackwater River, and began washing the blood and dirt from his skin.
He turned—
—and froze.
A man and a woman were hauling a bundled figure off a boat.
The man he recognized instantly; that massive frame could belong to only one family.
A Baratheon.
Symond's heart soared.
Help!
Salvation!
Someone to return him to the city!
He opened his mouth to call out—
—and then the bundle fell open.
A cascade of radiant silver hair spilled out.
Symond nearly dropped dead on the spot.
Seven bloody hells.
That's Prince Rhaegar.
Why is Prince Rhaegar unconscious?
Why is he with Robert Baratheon?
Why is Robert Baratheon kidnapping the heir to the Iron Throne?
Has the world gone mad?
Or have I?
He swallowed the scream rising in his throat and ducked behind a crate, heart pounding.
If he alarmed them, he'd be the next corpse in that bundle.
He followed them quietly, listening as Robert and the northern girl argued—loudly and stubbornly—about how best to confuse their pursuers: doubling back, boarding and leaving the boat again, then heading directly north by carriage.
At last Symond stepped out and declared—bold as a peacock—that his family had driven carriages for three generations, fast and well.
He had no idea what he said in his delirium, only that Robert believed him.
And since Robert did not recognize him at all in his current ragged state, the Master of Laws soon found himself scrubbed, dressed, paid, and installed as the driver of the carriage carrying:
One angry northern girl
One unconscious prince
One lovesick future king
And two horses who deserved better...
Thus began Symond's utterly ridiculous northbound journey.
---
Symond snapped out of his memories with a huff.
If he could rescue the prince, he thought, it would be a triumph of a lifetime.
Perhaps even enough to claim the position he'd always coveted:
Hand of the King.
He grinned to himself.
Tywin Lannister… you arrogant peacock.
Just you wait.
I, Symond Staunton of Rook's Rest, will kick your ugly golden arse off that chair myself!
"SYMOND!"
Robert's roar cracked the air like a whip.
Symond nearly leapt from the driver's bench, hastily brushing away the black river mud he'd been sprinkling behind them as a trail marker.
"Y-yes, m'lord!"
He turned, face arranged into the humble expression of a commoner.
"Why are we slowing down?" Robert barked. "You driving this carriage or letting the horses take a bloody nap?"
Robert leaned close and bellowed directly into Symond's ear.
The sound nearly ruptured his skull.
Symond gritted his teeth behind his smile.
"No slowing, m'lord! We're flying! These horses—Seven bless 'em—I've never driven such powerful beasts!"
Robert eyed him skeptically, then shrugged and disappeared back into the carriage.
Only when the curtain fell did Symond allow himself to exhale.
If Robert found out he was deliberately slowing the horses, he'd probably snap him in half like a stick.
Gods, what had the Stormland lords been feeding that boy?
He was built like the grizzly bear Symond had fought in the Kingswood.
With a physique like that, why use a stag for a sigil?
He ought to steal House Mormont's bear outright.
Symond muttered curses under his breath but soon grew anxious once more.
They had been traveling nearly two days from King's Landing, and still no sign of royal pursuit.
Were his markers too subtle?
Had no one found them?
Were they about to escape the Crownlands entirely?
Just as dread began to coil in his gut—
hoofbeats thundered behind them.
Symond twisted around.
Far down the King's Road, a cavalry detachment had appeared—growing larger by the second, riding hard, riding fast.
They had finally been found.
---