Robert's words were like a giant stone thrown into water, stirring up a suffocating storm.
Stannis Baratheon almost immediately jumped up, his resolute, thinning, somewhat prematurely aged face now filled with incredible horror.
"Return to King's Landing? Brother, you call that going home? That's walking straight into the wights' pockets. We should immediately return to Storm's End, relying on our ancestral fortress..."
"And wait for the Night King and his army of wights to peel the entire Stormlands like an orange?"
A cold, mocking voice cut in.
Renly Baratheon stood in the shadows, his eyes devoid of panic, only a resigned, irritating clarity: "With all strategic advantages lost, holding a solitary city is foolish. Perhaps... perhaps we should consider negotiating a surrender."
"Surrender?"
Stannis Baratheon shrieked in rebuttal, his voice slightly off-key with emotion, "Wagging our tails at that mad king's descendant? The Baratheon's dignity..."
"Dignity won't buy food, nor will it plug gaps in the city walls!"
Renly Baratheon roared.
He stepped forward, his gaze like a torch, fixed on Robert's face, "Blindly rushing to death is the act of a fool, brother! How many more people do you intend to drag to their graves for your momentary pique?"
Robert watched his brothers' infighting in silence.
His heart was sinking, as if falling into an endless deep sea.
He had once believed their blood ties were strong, but under true pressure, they were so fragile.
A wave of fatigue washed over him; he even thought, perhaps Renly was right, maybe just giving up like this... Just then, a figure stepped forward steadily, standing in the center of the hall, at the heart of the divisive vortex—it was Ned Stark.
He didn't speak, just stood there quietly, like the eternal snow mountains of the North, silently resisting all the wind and snow from outside.
Then, he turned to Robert, his grey eyes lacking Renly's flamboyance or Stannis's calculations, holding only an ancient, rock-like steadfastness.
"Robert,"
he spoke, his voice not loud, yet clearly overriding the brothers' quarrel, "Wherever you go, I will go."
There was no impassioned declaration, no analysis of pros and cons, just this simple sentence, like a heavy hammer, smashing the ice encasing Robert's heart.
A hot surge rushed to his eyes, almost making the king, renowned for his bravery, lose his composure on the spot.
He recalled many years ago, on that now somewhat blurry battlefield, permeated with the scent of grass and blood.
They had stood shoulder to shoulder then too, facing the encirclement of the Targaryen Family's army.
At that time, Ned had also stood silently by his side, telling him with his actions—I am here, with you.
Everyone called him King, revered him, schemed against him, or, like his brothers, tried to "correct" him.
Only this Northerner from Winterfell, this taciturn friend, still remembered him as "Robert," and not just "Your Majesty."
He wasn't supporting a king's decision; he was supporting his brother, the boy who had grown up with him in the Eyrie, the comrade who had fought by his side to win the kingdom.
Robert Baratheon took a deep breath; the stagnant air in his chest finally seemed to find an exit.
He surveyed the hall, his gaze for the first time clearly sweeping over Walder Frey's flickering eyes, over Roose Bolton's inscrutable lips, over the excited or cold expressions on his two brothers' faces.
Finally, his gaze returned to Ned.
He extended his huge, calloused hand and clapped Ned heavily on his sturdy shoulder, the armor clanking with a dull sound.
"Good!"
Robert's voice was like thunder, once again filled with that world-defying power; all hesitation and gloom vanished with that single clap, "I knew it, in all these damned Seven Kingdoms, only you, Ned Stark! Only you!"
He had countless vassals and knights, but at this moment, he felt he only needed this one.
With this man by his side, even if what lay ahead was a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood, Viserys and his resurrected dragons, Robert Baratheon would dare to smash out a bright new world with his warhammer again.
Because they were brothers.
That was enough!
Just as Robert Baratheon resolved to cast aside everything and lead his army to King's Landing for a desperate fight, Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard behind him completely lost his composure.
He absolutely could not allow anything to happen to his sister, Queen Cersei, nor would he ever accept surrendering to Viserys Targaryen.
Everyone knew he was a kingslayer, the kingslayer who had personally killed Viserys's father!
He decided he would take his sister Cersei and their three children to Casterly Rock, or, if that failed, secretly send them across the Narrow Sea!
Without the slightest hesitation, he picked up his sword and turned to leave.
However, just as Jaime Lannister turned, Robert Baratheon's peripheral vision happened to catch him: "Oh, scared enough to wet your pants, kingslayer!"
At these words, Jaime Lannister trembled, and everyone present simultaneously looked at the infamous Kingsguard.
"I... I'll settle my family and then return!"
He gritted his teeth and said in a deep voice.
Facing everyone's naked stares, Jaime Lannister lowered his head, so ashamed he wished he could sink into the ground.
However, how much credibility did these remarks have in everyone's eyes?
"Hahaha, Kingsguard, protect your queen!"
Robert Baratheon let out a burst of laughter, his mockery undisguised: "This doesn't count as desertion, does it?"
"Get out of here, take your sister back to Casterly Rock!"
Ned Stark echoed.
Hearing this, Jaime Lannister's face turned ashen.
What right did a running wolf have to mock a lion?
He had been mocked as the kingslayer for more than a day or two.
But they simply didn't know what kind of choices he had faced!
He was the one who saved the people of King's Landing who mocked him, he was the one who saved these nobles who boasted of defeating the Targaryen Family!
And now, the very people he protected were mocking him for being a coward, what a cruel twist of fate!
However, compared to honor, he cared more about his family.
He knew that Robert Baratheon had always looked down on him, the one who had stabbed a king in the back.
But Jaime Lannister swore in his heart that after settling his family, he would definitely return to fight for humanity, regretting nothing, even death!
Amidst everyone's curses, Jaime Lannister, with a dark face, silently led a warhorse and left with his sword.
"Let's drink heartily tonight!"
Robert Baratheon raised his goblet, shouting with a thick neck.
His cheeks were flushed with the redness of intoxication.
Ever since the little-known prince Viserys Targaryen suddenly intervened in the war, his Baratheon Dynasty had been mired in conflict.
As king, he hadn't even had a chance to get truly drunk!