Drink, Ned!"
"Tomorrow... tomorrow we will shatter those wight skeletons, those relics of an old era!"
Watching Robert Baratheon's forced madness, Ned Stark merely sat silently opposite him.
He did not expose Robert's fragile pretense, but simply gripped his wine glass, his fingertips white.
He could feel that the Baratheon Dynasty was disintegrating at an unimaginable speed, like a giant ship hitting an iceberg, destined to sink.
The two exchanged a smile, and could only drink in silence until they were thoroughly drunk!
That night, a torrential downpour fell.
Roose Bolton, Walder, and others walked into Robert Baratheon's hall with solemn expressions.
Following him were not his attendants, but a group of grim-faced noble warriors, their armor etched with various family crests.
"Your Majesty,"
Count Bolton's voice was as flat as ever, but his next words seemed to freeze the air directly, "Regrettably, for the Seven Kingdoms and the survival of all, we need to make a more... prudent choice."
Robert, his eyes hazy with drink, looked up, seemingly not yet understanding what had happened.
Ned Stark, however, felt a chill run through him, and instantly stood up, his direwolf-like instincts making him grip his sword hilt.
But he was fast, and someone else was faster.
Renly Baratheon, King Robert's dearest brother, standing behind Robert, no longer had his usual frivolous smile, only a taut, almost painful resolve.
He suddenly drew the dagger from his waist, not pointing it at Bolton, but precisely placing it against Robert's thick neck.
"Brother, don't move."
Renly Baratheon's voice trembled, but his hand remained firm on his neck, "Your reign is over. Our surrender requires a hostage — you."
Hearing this, Robert Baratheon's body stiffened.
When Robert completely abandoned the iron throne in despair, he perhaps never expected that the first dagger to strike would not come from the Targaryen heir, but from his closest blood and most "loyal" vassal.
Feeling the cold touch of the blade, Robert Baratheon slowly turned his head to look.
He saw Renly, his brother whom he always particularly cared for.
The flush brought by the alcohol rapidly receded from his face, leaving only an ashen pallor of betrayal by his closest kin.
He had wanted to die gloriously as a King, fighting to protect the people of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Renly..."
He murmured, his eyes filled not with anger, but with boundless desolation.
Almost simultaneously, the soldiers brought by Bolton pounced on Ned Stark like wolves.
Ned swung his sword, cutting down the first two who charged, the blade whistling ominously through the air.
But he was ultimately outnumbered, and in a short while, several longswords were holding his wolf sword "Ice" from different angles.
He struggled, his grey eyes fixed on Count Bolton, his voice as sharp as the cold wind of the Land of Always Winter: "The Northmen will not forget this day, Roose Bolton."
Hearing this, Roose Bolton merely bowed slightly, a hint of relieved calm even on his face.
For thousands of years, House Bolton had vied with House Stark for dominion over the North.
He never expected to win so easily now.
"Lord Stark, times have changed. The people of the North need to survive, and sometimes, to survive, it requires methods that are... not so honorable."
Roose Bolton calmly waved his hand and said, "Take him away, guard him well. He is our gift to the new King, Viserys Targaryen."
At this moment, Renly's handsome face no longer held its former frivolity, replaced by a taut, pale resolve, like a fully drawn bow, as if it would snap with the slightest force.
His gaze flickered, yet he had to force himself to meet Robert's eyes.
Robert's lips moved, but no sound came out.
He had anticipated this being a trick by Viserys Targaryen, anticipated a rebellion by some greedy vassal, and even anticipated Stannis arguing with him for the sake of "the greater good."
Even in his most absurd nightmares, he had never associated the word "betrayal" with his own brother.
This was the younger brother who would follow him, watching him wield his warhammer with adoring eyes; the youth who smiled the brightest at his coronation.
Now, that gleaming dagger had completely severed all the blood affection and past years between them.
The flames of anger, just ignited in his eyes, were quickly drowned by something deeper, more bitter.
The muscles in his face twitched violently, as if he wanted to roar, to curse, but in the end, he only let out a silent gasp, pulling his lips into an extremely ugly, almost self-mocking curve.
A low, hoarse laugh squeezed out from deep in his throat, carrying the smell of wine and endless desolation.
"Heh... heh heh..."
He laughed self-mockingly.
He had always borne the title of "usurper," sitting on that damned iron throne, trying to fill the fear in his heart with victory and past glory.
He thought he was protecting a kingdom, unaware that even his closest brother had felt suffocated in this hollow kingdom and chosen another path to survival.
Renly's betrayal, like a cruel mirror, reflected all his failures as a king and a brother.
The will to resist vanished at this moment.
His straight spine seemed to collapse instantly, his massive body no longer like a stag, but rather like a mountain that had come crashing down.
He didn't even look at Ned, who was restrained, but simply closed his eyes deeply and wearily.
"Very well..."
Robert Baratheon's voice was almost inaudible, "Let it be, Renly. Take my head to buy salvation and fortune!"
He no longer struggled, letting the cold dagger remain pressed against his throat.
He accepted this betrayal from within.
Dragonstone fell once again amidst a downpour and betrayal.
The old King became a prisoner, and new ambitions, treading on old loyalties, sprouted in the mud.
As the curtain of betrayal was just rising, and everyone's attention was drawn to Robert and Ned, Stannis Baratheon and The Onion Knight decisively led the Storm's End guards who remained loyal to him, quietly leaving the fortress through a secret passage.
He boarded a fast ship, sailing towards the vast Blackwater Bay, towards his base at Storm's End.
"House Baratheon will never surrender!"
Looking at the fallen Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon murmured to himself.
He did not look back, his tightly pressed lips like stone tablets etched with law, deeply imprinting all the betrayal and humiliation of this night into his heart.
He firmly believed that he could rely on Storm's End to withstand all attacks from wights and Others, and endure to become the last of humanity.