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He remembers the rush of that first kill. Game in the vale is plentiful, and for two boys just old enough to be trusted with horse, bow and spear, there was nothing they looked forward to as much as those rare occasions when they could escape tutors and duties at the Eyrie to spend a day hunting for adventure.
They bring back grouse and pheasant sometimes, a brace of hares – once Robert, brash and bold from the extra skin of wine he stole to take on their adventure, even disturbs a scarred old boar from its hiding place, though his aim is off and the spear impales a sapling instead of the bristly hide of the enraged beast.
But that first true kill – oh, it is glorious. Ned is but a second too late, and so the honor of that first kill goes to Robert, but as always, it is impossible to feel jealousy. How can he, when Robert stands triumphantly above the body of the largest stag they have ever seen, felled by Robert's spear in a single, glorious strike to the heart? The sun gleams in Robert's hair as he stands there, laughing with exhilaration, his hand reaching out to pull Ned closer impatiently.
“Did you see?” he asks urgently, “oh Ned, did you see?” and Ned cannot help but laugh and nod and shake his head, because it all happened so fast, and now they have done this – Robert has done this – and they will have a story of their own to tell on those long winter nights when they used to listen breathlessly to the guards' tales of war and tourneys and adventure.
~~~
He remembers the first time he sees Robert really, really drunk. They are lying on Robert's bed, another stolen wineskin between them – but this one had been filled with brandy, not with wine, and so they are now flushed and giggling, stripping out of their shirts because it seems like a good idea as everything feels too hot despite the cold winter air coming in through the window.
Robert is breathless and radiant with cheer and flings his shirt to the ground and then – then he just doesn't stop there and keeps stripping, and Ned has seen him naked countless times of course when they dress in the mornings or jump into a lake or bath or...
But this is different because Robert wraps his hand around himself and starts pulling, still giggling through his moans and Ned isn't quite sure what to do. For one breathless moment he wonders what Robert would feel like, imagines his hand touching him instead, wonders if Robert would moan just like he does now – and then Robert comes with a grunt, wiping his hand on the sheets and tilting his head to give him a lazy, drunken smile before he falls asleep just like that and leaves Ned feeling too hot and dizzy and confused.
~~~
He remembers the first kiss. They are sparring, out there in the Eyrie's quiet garden with no one else around, the clacks of wooden practice swords filling the air instead of the ring of steel. Ned is grinning because this time, this time he knows he is winning, has outmaneuvered Robert who is so good with the sword and untiring but just does not think, and then his plan works and Robert stumbles because he forgot that the gardeners left a pile of stones here which they dug from the ground earlier.
Ned whoops in triumph as he tackles Robert, pressing the wooden blade against his throat and grinning with exhilaration at Robert's shock. “I win!” he declares breathlessly. “Say it! Say that you yield!”
Robert grins back, still full of boisterous joy although this time, he has well and truly lost and Ned presses the sword down just a little more, out of breath as he laughs at the way Robert wriggles beneath him, unable to escape at last.
Only then, Robert raises his head, and – and their lips touch, and this is a kiss, Ned thinks, dumbfounded, Robert is kissing him, and what if someone sees, and what if he doesn't really mean it, and Robert's lips are so warm against his, and –
And then he is on his back and Robert is heavy on top of him, lazily rolling his hips against him as Ned realizes in mortification how hard he is. “I yield!” he says in a rush, “you win, Robert,” and he stares up at that mouth that is so close, so close, all Robert would have to do would be to lower his head again, just that tiny fraction...
Robert chuckles and stands then, stretching with a little groan before he reaches down to pick up their practice swords. He strolls away without another word or glance while Ned drops his head to the ground, licking his lips as he stares blindly up into the gray clouds above, not even realizing for long minutes that it has started to snow again.
~~~
He remembers Stoney Sept.
He sometimes wishes he wouldn't.
He remembers the fear of being too late, fighting their way through the narrow streets without even remembering a single of the faces of the men he slew. He remembers that rush of seeing Robert, at last, safely hidden in the Sept, smiling up at him with relief and elation and frustrated shame at the injury that kept him from taking to the field with his hammer.
He remembers that night a few days later, remembers and remembers and remembers for every single day of his life afterward.
He remembers Robert's bright smile, the gleam of victory in his eyes as he gestures at the maps surrounding them, remembers candlelight and wine and Robert's infectious laughter.
No better king, he had thought then, breathless and helplessly in love with the way Robert radiated charm and cheer. No better king, a true king, a warrior beloved by all.
Robert was drunk – on victory, not on wine, though there had been wine, of course. Just enough for a pleasant spread of warmth through his limbs. Not enough to blame what happened then on it.
Robert is gesturing, laughing as he plucks a small wooden griffin from the map, pulling Ned to his side as he throws it into a brazier to watch Jon Connington burn.
Ned turns to look at the map stretched out on the table before them, and truly – with Connington's retreat, with Stark, Baratheon, Tully and Arryn combined, this is victory now, it has to be. Certainly even the dragon will not be able to withstand the force of wolf and stag, trout and falcon.
He reaches out to topple the figurines of Connington's forces, turning his head, the heat of victory burning in his blood like that first taste of brandy back in the Eyrie – and Robert is close, so close, his eyes smiling with pleasure and affection and Ned can't help but stare at his mouth, remembering, and then –
And then they kiss and it is so unlike that first kiss, all need and passion and hunger and Ned isn't quite certain if Robert pushes him down onto the map table or if he pulls Robert down. He remembers the sharp pain of small wolves and stags and dragons stabbing into the skin of his back while he drinks in Robert's taste of wine and spices and pheasant and smoke, both of them scrambling madly at their clothes, and he supposes that it is a certain sort of madness, for this entire rebellion was a madness, and so in a way it is alright to be mad, just this once, to close his eyes and groan as Robert rubs against him until he forces himself to open his eyes again because it feels too much like a dream that way, and he wants it to be real, wants –
wants Robert's teeth biting at his lip, wants to lick at his mouth until it opens again, wants, wants –
wants that sharp ache of Robert inside him, forcing the breath from his lungs, wants the weight of him and the force of him and the little figures of their armies crushed by their combined weight and the way Robert half-laughs into his mouth like a delusional madman, only he keeps moaning his name, Ned, Ned, and Ned reaches up helplessly to bury his fingers in his hair, to rake his nails down his shoulder, grabbing him, holding him in place, in this perfect place where everything makes sense, where they are the victors, where they are kings and lords and everything is theirs, all the world is theirs, and they will always be like this, young and strong and alive and together and -
He remembers that tired, happy silence afterward, the soft sounds of the camp outside, Robert's hair brushing against his cheek, maps in disarray, and that simple perfection of holding him. Robert can't stay still for long, of course, and so at last, they get up, wipe themselves clean, pull up their breeches once more, but even then, Ned remembers, even then Robert's eyes kept lingering on him, full of warmth and elation, and they laugh as they smooth the maps and arrange the figurines of their forces once more, fingers touching every now and then as they place wolf and stag and trout and there is nothing awkward about it all, no place for doubt and fear in that one, perfect instance when he can see the king his friend will be, that great, just king he will become, and he still thinks of that moment, of the gleam of the candles in Robert's eyes and that wild joy of kissing him even as Ser Ilyn Payne raises Ice above his neck at last.