[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 66 - 70

Chapter 66: The Death of a King

The fragrance lingered on his tongue, refusing to dissipate.

Joffrey rinsed his mouth with wine again and again, but the delightful, sweet taste seemed to penetrate his very soul, rich and intense.

Yet, he would have preferred to taste sourness and bitterness.

As far as he knew, people shouldn't eat people, at least not in the physical sense.

It was all the lizard-lion's fault; such a creature shouldn't even possess a sense of taste.

The feeling was too bizarre.

He had never imagined that his final impression of the king would be so delicious, so temptingly decadent.

It was almost like devouring the personification of power from Robert's body, both real and surreal.

Power had a flavor.

Perhaps it was due to this association that he couldn't control the lizard-lion from indulging itself, could only watch as it tore apart the king's body with savage abandon.

The king's death was irreversible.

From that moment on, Joffrey knew with cold certainty that he had crossed a threshold.

No matter how events unfolded hereafter, he, who now stepped onto the stage, had lost any chance of retreat.

Once the crown was on, there would be no peaceful way to take it off.

King, ah.

"King Robert, the First of His Name, of House Baratheon, is dead. May he rest in peace."

Everyone, from Queen Cersei downward, wore expressions of grief. Many servants who had loved and respected the king wept openly, their cries echoing through the inn.

The king's body lay covered with a golden banner, dark crimson patches of blood seeping through from various places.

Without question, the king had not passed peacefully.

Eddard Stark stared blankly, feeling as though he walked through a waking nightmare.

Just an ordinary day.

Moments ago, Robert had been boasting of his strength, his laughter echoing throughout the forest. Then he had encountered such a monster and met this savage end.

Surely this was some cruel dream?

Lizard-lions had appeared in the Riverlands, stronger and larger than any ever recorded.

Eddard instantly recognized the danger.

He had tried desperately to protect his friend, but that damned boar had blocked him for a few heartbeats.

Only a few heartbeats, but they had made the difference between life and death.

By the time Eddard and half the guardsmen had leapt over the bloody, mangled boar and rushed toward the king, all the soldiers who had been with Robert lay dead upon the ground. The king's body was being tossed about in the monster's elongated jaws, blood and flesh dripping continuously.

It was at this moment that Ser Barristan and the other knights finally appeared behind them, but far too late.

The Ruby Ford, the place where Rhaegar had fallen, had become Robert's burial ground as well.

Was this some jest played upon the world by the gods above? Or punishment for the usurper?

A heavy, cold piece of steel seemed to press down upon Eddard's heart, making him almost unable to grip his sword hilt. The fire of revenge became his last and only motivation.

He led the charge against the lizard-lion.

The ferocious beast, sensing danger, immediately dropped Robert's broken body and scurried toward the river with a swish of its powerful tail. Yet its retreat was far slower than its initial assault had been.

Eddard quickly overtook it, his longsword cutting a gleaming arc that slowed the lizard-lion's escape.

Barristan, Jaime, and the other knights quickly joined the fray.

More soldiers tacitly surrounded the king-slaying monster. The area of combat was not large; if they all rushed in, they would only hamper one another.

Ordinary men-at-arms suddenly became spectators to the deadly dance.

The monster continued to roar while the king's body lay quietly on the beach, the sight violently impacting men's minds and brutally stuffing the truth into their heads.

A beast had killed the king!

Who could have imagined such a thing?

They began to believe those absurd plots from ancient legends and children's tales.

The battle proceeded with surprising smoothness.

The enraged knights displayed their greatest skills.

The monster had completely reverted to a beast with only instinct, senselessly wasting its strength.

It was easily lured by the longswords used as bait, snapping left and right, charging forward, and sweeping its tail backward. Yet the only thing it could touch was the sharp edge of the blades.

Deadly threats came from all directions, and it dared not focus on attacking any one enemy. It could only crawl back and forth within the small circle, wary of everything.

It tried to summon that otherworldly power within its body, but there was no response at all, as if it had never existed.

Apart from its abnormal size, it now differed little from ordinary lizard-lions in the Neck. Its speed had grown slower, its reactions more sluggish.

Suddenly, it shook its massive head and let out an agonized roar; one of its eyes was gone!

The knights had seized their opening.

A gilded longsword pierced directly into the lizard-lion's remaining eye. In an instant, thick, turbid fluid burst forth.

Its roars became louder, more frantic.

The Valyrian steel sword thrust into the lizard-lion's gaping maw. The razor-sharp tip broke through the hard carapace behind its head, pinning the beast's jaws shut.

It rolled about desperately, trying to dislodge the steel from its mouth.

But more longswords slashed open its vulnerable belly, forcefully cutting through muscle and churning its fragile internal organs.

It collapsed upon the riverbank and ceased its struggles.

The dust settled.

The boar had not escaped. The king-slaying lizard-lion lay dead. Revenge for the king had been exacted. But was there even a shred of joy to be found in this victory?

Not a single person smiled.

Eddard had completely lost his spirit. He did not refuse Jory Cassel's supportive arm, only staring blankly as soldiers covered Robert with the banner, pulled "Ice" from the lizard-lion's mouth, and cleansed all traces of the carnage from the riverbank.

Even now, with the party returned to the Inn at the Crossroads and the mourning ceremony for King Robert drawing to a close, Eddard still could not accept what had transpired.

Was this truly not some nightmare?

Eddard desperately wanted to sleep and wake to hear Robert's booming laughter once more, to see that familiar face. Even the ridiculously corpulent belly seemed an object of nostalgia now.

But everything around him served as a cruel reminder that it was over.

The era of King Robert, who had personally hammered Rhaegar to death, had ended. Robert, secretly referred to by some as the "usurper," had left the mortal realm and returned to the gods.

He heard countless people praying that His Grace find rest.

But Eddard knew that his good-brother Robert had hated rest more than anything; consigning him to rest was like sending him to the seven hells for torment.

"May the gods grant him love and laughter, and the joy of fighting for justice."

Robert, are there fine wines and glorious battles in the heavens? Is Lyanna there with you? Please give her my greetings, and may we eventually reunite.

"Lord Hand."

Ser Barristan approached with measured steps.

"The situation was dire at the time, but now... it's all over.

His Grace's departure brings great pain and calamity to the Seven Kingdoms, and the reasons behind it may not be simple.

Please examine this missive."

That's right.

I am the Hand of the King; Robert wanted me to help him govern the realm, and I must take up that burden.

The Seven Kingdoms cannot fall into turmoil again.

If only for Robert, for his children.

Eddard buried his grief deeper within his heart and accepted the wooden box from Barristan with a stony expression.

Bran quietly approached his father.

The boy didn't know whether he felt more sorrow or relief.

In the moment of attack, he had feared his father would perish. The outcome was better than he had feared.

Only a king had died.

But he understood his father's feelings all too well.

What if the beast had taken Robb instead? No, better not to think such thoughts.

He also grieved for Prince Joffrey.

Having lost his only father, His Highness must be devastated.

It was all the messenger's fault.

If the letter had arrived even half a day earlier, King Robert would have been safely away from danger, and none of this would have happened.

Bran watched his father reading the letter, wondering how he would respond.

Bloodraven is so hateful!

His father suddenly clenched the parchment in his fist, and his eyes surged with emotions Bran could not name.

"Bloodraven..."

Chapter 67: The Mastermind Behind the Scenes

Bloodraven awoke from a dream.

Heh~

He exhaled a deep breath of stale air, the sound echoing through the cave, betraying the faint weakness of a man at death's door.

He hadn't experienced a green dream in a very long time.

As is widely known, greenseers and those blessed with certain powerful gifts possess the green sight, allowing them glimpses of metaphors and symbols that foreshadow what is yet to come.

Though the meaning of such dreams often remains obscure at first, the unfolding of events inevitably confirms their truth.

This particular dream proved as bewildering as any.

He had dreamed of being trapped within countless pillars of flame. The fires twisted and danced, transforming into the shapes of wolves, stags, lions, fish, and other creatures. All were filled with righteous fury, all condemned his schemes and calculations with wordless accusation.

What could it mean?

Bloodraven's heart filled with disquiet. Such omens boded ill indeed. Could he have dreamed of his own demise?

If that were so, a greenseer who had witnessed the intricate tapestry of the world should accept his fate with dignity.

Bloodraven was not such a man.

He resolved to salvage what he could from the impending calamity. He had expended too much of his dwindling energy on matters at the Wall of late. Something must have transpired in the south. He must cast his gaze southward.

He surrendered himself wholly to the weirwood tree beneath him, plunging into the boundless dark earth and its network of pale roots. His vision leapt between the godswoods of distant castles, listening to the whispers and prayers offered beneath heart trees.

The heart tree of Winterfell had heard the troubles of Robb Stark and many others. The usurper and the treacherous Quiet Wolf remained on the road; the North could be considered peaceful.

But since a sennight past, the heart tree had grown utterly solitary. No one approached it anymore. Why?

The heart tree of Riverrun witnessed ravens arriving from the north, then similarly lost its petitioners and worshippers. Someone had even approached it bearing an axe.

The heart tree of the Red Keep welcomed many melancholy attendants and courtiers.

They whispered their discontent regarding the new Castellan in the godswood, exchanging hushed opinions on the two Small Council members who had fallen from grace.

They still asked among themselves: Is that Bloodraven still alive?

Bloodraven's consciousness quivered.

I'm exposed?! Did the captured singer reveal me to the usurper's son?

Bloodraven worked with greater determination to examine the memories of the heart trees. From south to north, from grand castles to lonely wilderness.

Finally, before a weirwood in a Riverlands forest—one that lacked even a carved face—he heard that person's whisper.

Joffrey Baratheon.

"Weirwood, oh weirwood, you can hear me, can you not?"

The boy looked directly ahead, as if conversing face-to-face with Bloodraven himself.

"I pray we might reach Father in time. I hope Bloodraven's attack comes later, that Father and the others might be spared harm."

Bloodraven felt a dark premonition creep over him.

"What manner of beasts will Bloodraven employ in his assault? The creatures of the Riverlands could never threaten a warrior like my father. He must have schemed at length to select adversaries worthy of the challenge."

"Yet he could never have anticipated that his conspiracy has already been laid bare."

Bloodraven comprehended Joffrey's sinister intent. How vicious! Moreover, this fledgling can also control beasts?

"Winterfell and Riverrun have become aware of the eyes hidden within the godswoods. They know of Bloodraven's malice toward the King and Lord Eddard, his loathing for the current Seven Kingdoms. He can no longer spy upon the realm with impunity."

So that's how matters stand.

"Bloodraven's plot against the Red Keep is beyond prevention, but hope remains for Father's party."

The changes in the Red Keep were this aberration's doing!

"Unless Bloodraven observes Father's every move, striking before the messenger arrives... I pray he has not done so."

Bloodraven calculated the timing. Robert was likely already dead.

Bloodraven understood at last. The flames in his dream symbolized the wrath of the south, now directed at him.

Could such baseless accusations still be refuted?

Bloodraven harbored little hope. His years at court had yielded many bitter lessons. How could an outsider prove his innocence to a hostile world? Even if he were to cut open his belly and present his heart, it would count for naught.

Moreover, those three singers had already made their way south.

Their existence and every word they uttered served as powerful indictments against him—evidence impossible to refute.

"Bloodraven is truly a formidable enemy."

Compared to this rising aberration, he—trapped in the Haunted Forest—possessed scarce power to resist.

Several confrontations, both direct and indirect, had ended in failure.

Expose information unfavorable to this upstart to the lords of the south? His own reputation had already suffered grievous damage. The effect was uncertain, but he himself would likely be eliminated before his message could take root.

Mutual destruction now represented the best possible outcome.

"Wise elder of the Children of the Forest, greenseer beyond the Wall, I implore you—remove the malevolent Bloodraven with all haste."

Bloodraven could not help but be stunned by the audacity.

"When this is done, the people of the Seven Kingdoms will rejoice, and you shall become the throne's most valued ally."

"The gods have granted me unimaginable divine power, bidding me establish a paradise on earth. I am prepared to share this glory with you. The power of life, resurrection, light, and redemption—all these might be yours."

"Consider my words carefully. I must continue my journey. Farewell."

Bloodraven withdrew from the weirwood network.

The cave remained dark and silent, as if nothing had changed. A fitting place for the dead to rest; living things were the true anomalies here.

He murmured to himself, "Who am I?"

A singer happened to enter the cave bearing food. "You are the last greenseer."

Countless images flooded Bloodraven's mind.

The fair heart-shaped face of his beloved, her long silver hair, her bewitching eyes—one blue, one green—her smooth back.

Bittersteel's grim and wrathful countenance, his irritating personal sigil, his delusions and wild ravings about Shiera.

And his gentle, kind half-brother, and the Blackfyre Rebellion for which he fought.

He had ordered archers to cut down Daemon Blackfyre and his two sons, and more blurred figures danced before his vision.

They all beckoned to him, then turned away, gradually dissipating into nothingness.

The greenseer sighed. "Yes, I can scarcely recall it now. I am the last greenseer."

Aberration, what are your intentions? What game do you play?

Joffrey was communicating with the Red Keep. Hanna and the Hound reported the specific outcomes of the past two days.

"Congratulations, Your Majesty—"

Joffrey interrupted Hanna, relaying a message. "It is premature. The King lives and thrives. I remain merely the Crown Prince."

"Forgive me, Your Highness."

Hanna swiftly amended her words. "Thanks to His Grace's attention, and Your Highness's blessing.

At present, we have assumed control of a thousand little birds formerly in Varys's employ, and have purged more than three hundred rebels who refused to yield.

We have seized sixty-two brothels and upward of two hundred taverns and other establishments from Littlefinger's grasp. The heads of the treasury, the mint, and the harbor have all pledged fealty to the crown, and most merchants within the city operate as usual, save for a few malcontents."

Joffrey expressed satisfaction. "It is well that matters remain quiet. Avoid causing panic; King's Landing cannot fall into chaos."

Hanna spoke with confidence. "Thanks to His Grace's clemency in pardoning these subjects' transgressions, they naturally refuse to champion the cause of traitors."

The Hound inquired, "What fate awaits Varys and Littlefinger?"

Joffrey still wished to extract further advantage. "Remove their limbs and geld Littlefinger. Demonstrate to them the power of magic. Inform them that only through obedience and proving their value might they be restored to wholeness."

The Hound could not suppress a shiver.

"You need only maintain stability within the Red Keep and King's Landing. It won't be long." Joffrey's eyes grew distant. "Soon. By tomorrow I shall reunite with Father and the others."

Will I truly be able to weep then?

Chapter 68: Crossroads Inn

At Queen Cersei's behest, King Robert's body remained at the inn so Prince Joffrey might look upon his father one final time.

As a mark of respect and mourning, the white stone edifice had been draped in thick black cloth. Those who came and went had somehow procured garments of mourning, and laughter was a sound forgotten.

The innkeeper, Masha Heddle, stood outside, regarding the transformed inn with mingled feelings.

Her establishment sat at the junction where the Kingsroad running north and south met the River Road stretching westward and the High Road leading east to the Vale. Hence it bore the name "Crossroads Inn."

It had existed for centuries, bearing many names throughout its long history.

Due to various notable events that had transpired within its walls, it had been called the Two Crowns, the Bellringer Inn, and the Clanking Dragon. Now, the innkeeper wondered if yet another name would soon be bestowed upon it.

The king had not perished upon the Iron Throne, nor had his passing been presided over by the High Septon in the Great Sept of Baelor. Instead, he had met his end in her humble inn, surrounded by only a handful of nobles, the rest being common soldiers and servants. What name would men give the place now?

Whoosh~

A sudden gust of wind blew with such force that she could not keep her eyes open. She vaguely sensed an immense presence leap to her side in an instant, accompanied by a ponderous sound like a hundred men drawing breath as one.

The dust and wind gradually subsided, allowing her to cautiously open her eyes to a narrow slit.

Ah~

She could not even summon a scream, collapsing weakly to the ground. Could this be the same monster that had slain the king?

Had they returned?

After waiting what seemed an eternity without being torn asunder, she slowly opened her eyes again and raised her head.

A handsome young man garbed in red and gold finery sat astride the creature, gazing ahead with an expression of utmost gravity. She recognized him at once. The beast was the lion from a few moons past, nearly doubled in size, and the young man was the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms—the king-to-be.

Behind him sat a woman bearing a spear, and several others... wait.

What manner of beast was this?

She scrambled backward, using both hands and feet, feeling a measure of relief only when she reached the inn's doorway.

Only then did she notice the figure astride another creature, white as fresh snow. The Imp was struggling to dismount from the white bear's thick fur, while a black-haired youth held a white wolf with eyes red as freshly spilled blood.

The Crown Prince inquired in a voice that trembled, "Father—what has befallen him?"

What words were needed? The black banners everywhere provided the clearest explanation.

Masha simply bowed repeatedly, offering obeisance to her betters.

Soon, numerous nobles poured forth from the inn. The travel-worn Crown Prince and his companions were enveloped by the crowd, receiving countless sorrowful glances and murmured condolences.

Queen Cersei, clad in a black velvet gown, rushed to her beloved son. She embraced the Crown Prince tightly and surrendered to her grief.

"Joffrey, your father... he... he has been murdered by Bloodraven!"

The assembled company lowered their heads in silence.

Indeed, the notorious Lord Bloodraven. Even the innkeeper, who endeavored to remain uninvolved in the affairs of nobles, knew that Bloodraven yet lived, watching the Seven Kingdoms from beyond the Wall.

But the Crown Prince seemed not to hear. "Mother, I bear urgent tidings for Father. Where might I find him?"

All present could not help but exchange bewildered glances.

"The Bold" Barristan shook his head gravely and approached the Crown Prince. "Your father lies in the great chamber on the inn's third floor."

The Crown Prince immediately pushed through the throng and hastened into the inn.

Ser Barristan offered explanation. "His Highness is doubtless overwhelmed by grief and unwilling to accept news of His Grace King Robert's passing. I have witnessed similar cases before."

The crowd nodded in understanding, sighing at the depth of affection between father and son.

The assemblage surged back into the inn, leaving only the innkeeper and those servants not deemed worthy to pay their respects.

Masha exhaled deeply and resumed her contemplation of what new name might befall her establishment.

When the crowd gathered in the chamber where King Robert's body lay in state, they found Joffrey had been standing there in silence for what seemed an eternity.

The arrangements within were modest by necessity.

The statues of the Seven, which ought to have stood seven times the height of a man and been carved from finest marble, were instead rough wooden effigies collected from nearby village septs.

The altar of the Mother was so diminutive that it could accommodate but a single supplicant.

The statue of the Stranger, charged with guiding the dead to the next world and before which King Robert's coffin had been placed, inspired neither fear nor mystery, standing shorter even than Tyrion.

Only the pungent aroma of incense remained true to tradition. Candles, at least, were plentiful among the royal retinue.

Joffrey beheld a hundred candles burning brightly, each sending a blessing to the king in the heavens. May he receive these benedictions and fight joyously in the afterlife, no longer yearning for the mortal realm.

The crowd observed the Crown Prince's rigid posture in respectful silence. They could well imagine the expression he wore in this moment of grief.

Gods be good. May the new king of the Seven Kingdoms rule with wisdom and benevolence.

Joffrey's voice emerged hoarse with emotion. "We must depart without delay. Father's final resting place shall be the holy and magnificent Great Sept of Baelor, the most exalted of sanctuaries. He should not linger here overlong."

The crowd exchanged uncertain glances.

Queen Cersei stepped forward from among them. "Joffrey, we must accept this bitter reality with heavy hearts. Robert has left us, and the realm requires a new king to guide it."

The Queen approached King Robert's bier and lifted the stag crown from its silver cushion.

"You must assume this burden. Do not succumb to sorrow, but bravely embrace your destiny. The Seven Kingdoms have need of you."

The Queen held the crown aloft in both hands and advanced toward the Crown Prince with measured steps.

The crowd grew quieter still, their very breathing seeming to slow.

Ser Barristan, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, remained motionless. His hand gripped the hilt at his waist, ready to offer his sword and his life to the new king.

Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, likewise stood fast. How could he deny Robert's son?

Jaime did not stir. He silently observed as Cersei placed the crown upon Joffrey's head, wondering what future awaited the Seven Kingdoms. Had Joffrey's transformation these past moons been mere pretense or genuine change?

Bran, Sansa, and many others stared at the scene in wonderment. A new king ascended to power—how many times might one witness such a moment in a single lifetime?

The crown finally came to rest upon the brow of the new king. Queen Cersei cradled her son's face and offered a smile of profound emotion before helping the new king turn slowly to face his subjects.

Shua~

The assemblage knelt as one, the friction of armor and clothing creating a single sound that heralded the commencement of the ceremony.

The Queen Mother's chief steward intoned with solemnity:

"All hail Joffrey, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, of Houses Baratheon and Lannister."

There had been one additional appellation, but who would gainsay it now?

The crowd immediately erupted in thunderous acclaim, heedless of the strain upon their voices.

"Long live King Joffrey!"

Ser Barristan stepped forward, knelt upon one knee, and presented his most cherished sword. "Your Grace, my blade is yours. I shall remain your loyal knight until my final breath."

Joffrey accepted the sword, then returned it to the Lord Commander. "Your loyalty stands beyond question. Rise, ser."

Next came Lord Eddard, who offered the circular badge of the Hand. "Your Grace, Winterfell and the North shall ever be your faithful servants. If Your Grace permits me to resign and return to my lands, I shall maintain the North's stability in your name."

Joffrey took the badge, then returned it without hesitation.

"Until I assume personal governance, I decree that the Hand of the King, Eddard Stark, the Queen Mother, Cersei Lannister, and Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock shall rule jointly."

Eddard lifted his head in astonishment.

Chapter 69: The Bloodthirsty Throne

The mournful procession set forth at last.

At its head traveled King Robert's coffin, borne with solemn dignity and flanked by Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard.

The hastily crowned King Joffrey the First, Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, Ser Barristan Selmy, and the assembled courtiers followed in their wake.

Supply wagons, women, children, and guards brought up the rear, a serpentine column of grief winding its way down the Kingsroad.

When the procession made its first camp, the Hand of the King could scarce wait to seek audience in the royal pavilion.

Eddard Stark had many questions that demanded answers.

"Your Grace, what knowledge do you possess of Bloodraven? Where does he conceal himself? The Night's Watch must be able to locate him!"

Joffrey, already garbed in a deep black robe of mourning, regarded him steadily. "Lord Eddard, I beg you calm yourself. Bloodraven is not to be underestimated; his elimination will prove no simple task. We must cultivate patience."

Joffrey wove a tapestry of half-truths and fabrications.

"Most of what I know of him comes from the Children of the Forest. He hides in the depths of the haunted forest beyond the Wall, employing only weirwood trees and the eyes of animals to spy upon the Seven Kingdoms, never revealing himself. All this was contained in the letter you received."

Joffrey fixed Eddard with a penetrating stare. "Moreover, Bloodraven has long plotted against King's Landing and the Red Keep. Certain individuals maintain clandestine and unseemly connections with him."

"I presume you remain ignorant of recent events in King's Landing?"

Eddard offered a respectful bow. "I would be grateful for your enlightenment, Your Grace."

Joffrey did not speak aloud, but instead employed magic to transmit his voice directly into Eddard's mind: "I must entreat you to keep what follows in absolute confidence. Do not be alarmed; it is I who address you thus."

Discomfited by this strange manner of communication, Eddard struggled to maintain his composure. Was this the magic that Catelyn had mentioned in her missive?

"I received a prophetic dream. The Seven Kingdoms—indeed, the world entire—faces a cataclysm of unprecedented scale. After the Others breach our defenses, the Long Night shall descend once more. The gods have bestowed upon me these divine powers, commanding me to stand against the darkness and the cold monsters that threaten all life."

"The prophecy revealed Bloodraven's shadow. He has many confederates in King's Landing, including Lord Varys and Lord Baelish."

Eddard could but listen in silence, uncertain how to question such assertions.

"From that moment, I observed these two councillors with particular vigilance. With Father absent from the Red Keep, they might seize the opportunity for mischief, so I made secret preparations. Through the blessing of the gods, I transformed Sandor into a warrior capable of facing a hundred men, thus ensuring King's Landing's security."

Eddard realized with a start: something had indeed transpired in King's Landing!

"You perceive correctly. Bloodraven appears to have conspired with Varys and others. By chance, I received word from Sandor but two days past that Varys and Baelish had launched their assault, and nearly the entire City Watch had turned traitor. By good fortune, Sandor subdued them."

"Then Father was slain by Bloodraven's machinations immediately thereafter. This cannot be mere coincidence!"

Eddard could almost envision Bloodraven's countenance—insidious, cunning, and wholly inhuman, as if Littlefinger and Varys had somehow been melded into a single monstrous being.

Joffrey's telepathic voice brimmed with anguish and remorse. "The prophecy contained no warning of Father's demise. How could events have unfolded thus? I was criminally negligent! The gods shall not forgive my failure!"

Eddard felt a kinship in this grief. Having witnessed Robert's death with his own eyes, he too struggled to forgive himself.

"Yet hope remained."

Joffrey continued his mental communication: "When we parted at Winterfell, I presented Arya with a sliver of enchanted steel that enables communication across vast distances. Both Bran and she have employed it to converse with Jon. Thus it serves as a conduit for urgent tidings."

Eddard recalled the unremarkable steel fragment that Arya had guarded so jealously. So it was an object of magical provenance!

"A sennight past, the Children of the Forest warned me of Bloodraven's conspiracy. I thought at once of the steel shard, but it suddenly ceased to function. This must have been Bloodraven's doing!"

"Thereafter, we could only travel with all haste and bid Lady Catelyn dispatch ravens. Alas, we remained one step behind our foe."

Eddard shook his head, recognizing that blame served no purpose here. So long as Bloodraven could observe their movements, he could act at will. No matter their speed, they could not have preserved Robert's life.

Robert had loved the hunt too well; he had exposed himself to Bloodraven's beasts nearly every day.

Eddard smiled sadly; in the end, it seemed Robert had been the architect of his own downfall.

"What remains within our power is to eliminate Bloodraven's eyes wherever possible, denying him unfettered access to the Seven Kingdoms."

Joffrey regarded Eddard with grim determination. "When sufficient strength has been amassed, even should Bloodraven flee to the Land of Always Winter, we shall extinguish his threat forever!"

Eddard glanced toward the Children of the Forest who waited outside the pavilion, drawing the attention of all who passed. "Yes, Your Grace."

He took his leave, moving toward the diminutive, enigmatic beings.

Joffrey watched in silence as Leaf recounted information about Bloodraven to the Hand of the King.

The revelations he had shared would prove difficult to refute. The prophetic content was true, the magic was genuine, Bloodraven's abilities were accurately described, and the events in King's Landing had indeed occurred.

Without assuming Joffrey as the perpetrator, Bloodraven remained the sole plausible culprit.

That sufficed.

Every monarch accumulated suspicious circumstances and blemishes upon their record. In the absence of incontrovertible evidence, such matters remained mere conjecture—slander and rumor spread by enemies and malcontents.

Even Eddard, who prized honor above all, could not oppose his king based on suspicion alone.

Queen Cersei entered the pavilion and dismissed the servants with a gesture. The Queen Mother's steward was last to depart, drawing the tent flap closed behind him.

The interior immediately grew dim and hushed.

Cersei seated herself beside her son. "My sweet Joffrey, what possesses you to name Eddard Stark as regent? Allowing him to retain the Hand's position already constitutes excessive generosity!"

Joffrey observed his mother's lips continue to move, though she spoke no further words aloud.

The unspoken second half of her thought surely remained: "Why involve your grandfather as well? I fear Lord Tywin prefers Casterly Rock and Lannisport; he harbors little desire to journey to King's Landing."

Joffrey offered reassurance. "Mother, set your mind at ease. I have considered matters with utmost care. Our position remains precarious. Even setting aside the question of my true parentage, can we be certain the great lords will offer wholehearted fealty?"

Cersei snorted derisively. "Who would dare cause discord?"

Joffrey persisted in his argument. "Lord Eddard delivers to us the support of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale. Combined with the Crownlands and Grandfather's Westerlands, our rule stands secure."

"Besides," Joffrey took his mother's hand in his own, "do I not recognize that Mother loves me best of all? Lord Eddard's regency amounts to mere ceremony. Grandfather Tywin retains responsibility for the entire Westerlands. In the final reckoning, governance rests with us alone."

Cersei's expression softened marginally.

Joffrey added, "We must not forget Uncle Renly. He will not submit without struggle. The lords of the Stormlands answer to him, and he maintains cordial relations with Highgarden. The greater our strength, the more assured our safety."

Cersei suddenly grasped the full extent of the danger. "Renly means to rebel?!"

This development seemed inevitable.

Joffrey reached his decision.

From yesternight to this day—the brief span of his kingship—people's attitudes and inquiries had made his true position painfully clear.

Noble in title, yet bereft of authority.

According to established custom, he could not independently manage state affairs before reaching sixteen years of age. The regents and the Hand would exercise royal power in his stead.

How could he accept such constraints?

Four years must pass before he attained majority. By then, the Others would have already breached the Seven Kingdoms, and the Long Night might have descended in full—and only then would he begin to rule in truth?

This diverged entirely from Joffrey's design. In four years' time, he aspired not merely to wield a king's authority, but to stand as a supreme emperor—a hero-king who had preserved the world from annihilation.

To acquire such paramount power within so brief an interval, only one path presented itself: war, bloodshed, violence, and the utter subversion of the existing order.

Let war come, then—let it rage with unprecedented fury.

The throne would grow mighty by drinking deep of blood.

With unwavering resolve, Joffrey issued instructions to Hanna and the Hound in the Red Keep.

"Allow Renly to depart the city."

Chapter 70: Ringing the Bell

The black raven reached the Red Keep before Robert Baratheon's coffin had completed half its journey.

That day, all the bells in the city began to toll in slow, mournful rhythm. Their deep resonance echoed throughout King's Landing, lingering long in the air like a spirit reluctant to depart.

Hundreds of thousands gazed up in astonishment at the bell towers, unwilling to accept what the dolorous sounds portended.

The King is dead?

The expressions exchanged between neighbors confirmed what none wished to believe.

The King is dead.

The Great Sept of Baelor hastily arranged a memorial service for the smallfolk to pay their respects. The High Septon announced that he and the seven Most Devout would seclude themselves for seven days to pray for King Robert's soul, beseeching the Seven for blessings upon the departed.

The plaza before the Sept filled instantly with a sea of humanity. The compassionate statue of Baelor the Blessed stood silent witness as the tolling bells proclaimed the kingdom's loss.

Such mournful bells.

People would long remember the peace that had prevailed under King Robert's rule, his booming laughter, and the magnificent tourneys held in times of plenty.

Would these days of relative contentment pass away with the bells' final toll?

Many mourned for King Robert with genuine sorrow.

Merchants who had black cloth and garments in their storerooms earned countless dragons as a result. Their hands could scarce keep pace with demand as they simply tossed coins into heaps, which clinked and clattered in mercantile melody.

People's joys and sorrows flow in such different channels.

Yet none dared smile at such a moment.

Even those who might recall the happiest memories, who secretly yearned for the return of Targaryen rule, who harbored hatred for the Iron Throne and all the high lords—even these maintained solemn mien.

After all, the King was dead.

The bells tolled without cease. People clad in black garments and wearing ribbons of mourning streamed into the Great Sept like the incoming tide, then flowed out again like the ebb.

The human flood then separated into individuals left adrift in uncertainty.

What now?

Some stood bewildered for a time. Others shed tears, sobbed, sighed, or offered brief lamentations. All eventually had no choice but to return silently to their stations and continue their daily labors.

What else could they do?

Life must continue its inexorable course.

In the span of half a day, King Robert's era had become an irreversible past, receding with each mourner's departure into increasingly distant history.

The King's death proved both sensational and oddly quiet.

King's Landing seemed transformed by this event, yet paradoxically unchanged.

The city appeared to function as before, but beneath the surface, powerful currents surged in darkness.

The Red Keep, naturally, remained the nexus of all these swirling eddies and treacherous undertows.

Every courtier offered prayers in the castle's sept for beloved King Robert. They beseeched the Father to judge him justly and the Mother to grant mercy, adding a hundred other blessings besides.

Their prayers were more formal and prolonged than those of the smallfolk, though no more sincere.

They exchanged furtive glances, each attempting to conceal their true thoughts while striving to discern what lay in the hearts of others.

The transformation from friend to foe required but a moment's notice.

As the setting sun cast its golden glow through the stained glass windows, Hanna, acting as Master of Laws, announced the conclusion of the memorial service. Simultaneously, she conveyed the first decree issued by His Grace, King Joffrey, First of His Name:

Make all necessary preparations for the funeral of the late King Robert Baratheon; Prepare for the coronation ceremony; Appoint Lord Tyrion Lannister as Master of Coin; Appoint Lady Hanna as Master of Laws; Appoint Sandor Clegane as Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing; Inform the Seven Kingdoms that Lord Regent Tywin, Queen Regent Cersei, and Lord Regent and Hand of the King Eddard Stark shall serve as regents until His Grace comes of age.

The assembled courtiers sank to their knees and intoned with one voice: "Long live His Grace, King Joffrey, First of His Name!"

Renly Baratheon forced himself to kneel and offer congratulations.

His lifeless expression stemmed not from grief, but from the effort to conceal his inner terror and bewilderment.

Stannis is dead, Robert is dead—am I next?

Though evidence remained elusive, Renly had already concluded that both deaths were inextricably linked to House Lannister.

Who benefited most from these convenient deaths? The answer seemed painfully obvious.

The Lannisters!

Tywin and Cersei were named regents. The Imp had secured a seat on the Small Council. The Kingslayer stood poised to advance further at any moment. The Red Keep would soon belong wholly to the lions of Casterly Rock.

Renly could see the dismal future taking shape before his eyes.

The Iron Throne, eroded by lions. Dragonstone, possessed by Joffrey.

After years of political maneuvering, all that would remain to House Baratheon was Storm's End—their home of three centuries, no more, no less. Fate played cruel jests indeed.

And even to secure this bleak ending, he must first escape King's Landing.

Renly placed all his hopes on Loras Tyrell.

Yes, House Tyrell is no trifling power. The Lannisters themselves are absent from the capital—their lackeys would not dare act precipitously. The men of Highgarden will surely protect me. They must.

Renly could only cling to this desperate hope.

As the courtiers gradually dispersed, Renly moved with the crowd toward freedom, remaining close to Ser Loras.

He would act tonight.

Hanna stood in the sept, watching Renly's receding figure with calculating eyes.

She failed to comprehend His Grace's strategy.

Why allow Renly to depart?

Even if the Hound had become too visible to conduct an assassination, others could surely succeed. At minimum, they ought to make the attempt.

But she had long since learned the value of silence, obedience, and attending strictly to her duties.

She turned to the Hound and said simply, "Go."

Night had fallen, deep and velvet.

By dim torchlight, dozens of destriers with hooves wrapped in thick cloth moved silently from the stables toward a side entrance of the Red Keep. Armored knights led them by their reins.

Crack~

The sound of the door opening seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness, as though it might be heard throughout the sleeping city.

Renly and Ser Loras both recognized this as mere illusion.

Provided their escape remained undetected, they could depart the Red Keep quietly. Only one significant obstacle remained: the city gates.

Tonight's plan was elegantly simple: exit the Red Keep, leave the city through the Mud Gate, take ship across the Blackwater Rush, then journey south along the Kingsroad toward home.

Unfortunately, thanks to the Hound's influence, the gold cloaks maintained heightened vigilance.

The night garrison at each gate had increased to ten squads, and the captains had largely been replaced by men of stubborn disposition who displayed rigid adherence to duty.

The captain of the Mud Gate, Ironhand, presented a particular problem.

The man had defected wholeheartedly to the Hound and the Lannisters. He would not permit their passage without resistance.

Renly had prepared himself for armed conflict.

If they could close the distance swiftly, his elite knights would prove sufficient to overwhelm the gold cloaks. Once beyond the gate, nothing would prevent his return to Storm's End.

Maximum speed, minimum time—they must breach the gate before the city could respond.

After traversing several hundred yards from the Red Keep, they mounted their horses and rode directly toward the Mud Gate at full gallop, startling countless sleepers along their route.

The thunder of hooves and clatter of armor in the night hours caused many to cower beneath their blankets rather than rise to investigate. Only after the sounds receded did they relax slightly, secretly wondering what momentous events might be unfolding, and whether these would affect their humble lives.

The knights soon reached Fishmonger's Square, beyond which stood the Mud Gate.

Renly glimpsed hope on the horizon.

Though the gate remained tightly closed, only a single squad of gold cloaks huddled around a bonfire, with an officer standing apart from the rest.

No!

Renly's heart plummeted. That officer was not Ironhand!

The Hound signaled the gold cloaks to open the gate. "Lord Renly departs in such haste? Why bid no farewells to your fellow councillors?"

Renly regarded the widening gap in the gate with suspicion. Am I dreaming?

The Hound turned his gaze upon Loras. "And why does the Knight of Flowers wish to abandon the city as well? Do you not desire an audience with His Grace?"

Renly cautiously urged his mount forward. The Hound made no move to intercept him.

Renly glanced back at Loras with uncertainty.

Loras offered a melancholy smile. "My good lord, you must go. It is better that I remain."

Bewildered, Renly hesitated in silence before leading half the Baratheon knights through the city gate, making for the harbor.

Many watched Renly's retreating form until the gate closed once more.

Melisandre extinguished her flames with a gesture, shaking her head in disappointment. "It is not you. The blood of kings flows in your veins, but you are not the one."

The ancient texts of Asshai foretold: "After the long summer, the stars will bleed. Azor Ahai shall be reborn amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons from stone."

Prince of prophecy, where do you hide?