A Game of Thrones, Eddard IV
The king’s seat sat empty at the head of the table, the crowned stag of Baratheon embroidered in gold thread on its pillows. Ned took the chair beside it, as the right hand of his king.
“My lords,” he said formally, “I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“You are the King’s Hand,” Varys said. “We serve at your pleasure, Lord Stark.”
As the others took their accustomed seats, it struck Eddard Stark forcefully that he did not belong here, in this room, with these men.
He remembered what Robert had told him in the crypts below Winterfell. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools, the king had insisted.
Ned look down the council table and wondered which were the flatterers and which the fools. He thought he knew already.
