Chapter Text
Her fingers ran through the fur of his chest. “What are you thinking of?”
A single speck of light crept underneath the tight-woven wool curtains of the king’s chambers. It was hard to say where his mind had wandered in the morning haze. There was only a sound, faint but melodious. Like far away war drums.
She stared it him. “Robert?”
“This,” he answered as he circled the firm pink peak of her teat.
That morning was like most mornings. Woken by a hungry woman who took his girth with a shudder and gasp and wet tightness as if she were still that pale maid a thousand nights ago. Even in the dim light the cream of her skin and silver-gold of her hair shone like sunlit sea foam crashing upon his cliffside flesh. Strange it was that he never tired of her taste. Stranger yet was the dull dread unfurled within him now. Even as his seed spilled across her lips he felt like a shepherd afraid of a haloed moon on a windy black night that left the birds fleeing, for they knew a storm was coming.
When Robert flung open his curtains he found that terrible storm.
Atop the ramparts he watched on as a royal procession dismounted in the middle bailey. watched on as a hundred cloaks in red encircled a wheelhouse crowned in gold wreaths and a roaring lion adornment. He watched on as a woman emerged from the wheelhouse. She wore green as mocking as her eyes, dressed in a serpent skin to match the poison on her tongue.
“How tasteless,” Lynesse Hightower sneered watching beside him. “What a horrid shade. It reminds me of bile.”
It reminded him of only of fire. Wild and green and worse than any other. Two years. After two years, Queen Cersei Lannister and her brood had returned to King’s Landing.
“Your Grace,” said a young man behind them; Jon’s steward stiff in his bow. “The Hand requested you join him in the yard.”
Robert could feel his peace slip away. Jon Arryn. The witch was looking at him already and smiling that accursed smile. He would not walk away and let the word coward leave her lips.
He grunted his agreement but turned to his woman. “Where is my daughter?”
“In her rooms,” Lynesse answered as her finger caressed his arm.
He moved away. “Find her and take her to your own. Have your brother guard the door.”
Before he left she grabbed his hand and brought it to her lips. “Good luck.”
Robert huffed at her antics. Cersei Lannister was no game to blither about uncaringly. A stake through her heart would be surer than luck. Lynesse Hightower knew nothing of that hag’s spells. Mya Stone knew nothing of the daggers in the dark. They did not know her as he did.
He stormed into the bailey managing a kingly smile taught to him by Jon Arryn. The old man was already there wobbling on that cane of his. Hidden in his tower when the king needed him but always ready to kiss the hand of every coxcomb and cunt.
“Couldn’t let it be, eh?” Robert told him.
“We must speak,” Jon replied in a hushed voice meant for only for secrets.
Robert misliked that weary tone. “What’s happened?”
Jon shook his head softly and kept his gaze at the party in front. “Not here. Later… I… we must speak.”
He frowned but said nothing else. A castle’s worth of eyes fell on at them as his esteemed wife held her hands by her waist and waited for him to drop to his knees and beg. Her cubs watched on expectantly, each of them taller with floppy golden manes and golden guards behind them. At the head of the pride stood the Lord of Casterly Rock himself. The mighty Tywin and his sunlit bald head and muttony whiskers too big for his puckered face.
“Lord Lannister,” the king drawled, addressing the man before the woman. “Come to smell this side of the sea?”
Cersei’s father had a face of hard stone. “The city’s smell remain the same, Your Grace. I thought to ensure the queen’s… safe return. The roads grow treacherous of late.”
“Treacherous,” Robert repeated as he spotted the look shared between the Lannister and Jon.
“A feast in celebration would be in proper order,” Jon Arryn quickly said. “I had one prepared just this morning. I am sure the princes and princess are very tired from the long journey.”
“You are so very kind, Lord Hand,” Cersei said. “A feast would be swell. I hope you do not mind some late additions. I’ve brought many of our honest Westerland lords and ladies. I’ve sung much of the capital praises and I know they have been keen to visit. They will tell you much of how I have missed it.” A great gap formed between them that beckoned Robert forward at Jon Arryn’s poorly hidden cough. He took her queerly warm hand and kissed it. His lips burned. “And you, husband,” she continued with her clever lady’s laugh, “How much I have missed you. You look healthy. I am glad. Shall we?”
“We shall,” Jon Arryn said quickly.
The witch interlaced her arm with his before he could refuse and led on.
A simple morning feast was hardly the sight before him now. Every cook of the city had been paid their fair share by the look of it as each long trestle table with silver plated platters boasted of boars, breads, braggots and a thousand other dishes to feed a castle under siege a dozen years. It was the same again. The same as those years ago. Sat upon the dais beneath the throne with his Hand to the right and his queen to the left and half a thousand lords and ladies to cheer and clap and caw; each of them out west with a jest he could not hear, but he knew, he knew was there.
The first to approach the table was a boy. A prince. Though without those spindly green eyes and bloodied black face bruised from Robert’s fists. He had waited in the yard silently but now he stood with his mother’s accursed smirk.
“Father,” Joffrey said.
“Joffrey,” Robert replied. He could taste the tension and that woman’s eyes on him. What did they want from him? An apology? “Well. What are you now, boy. Nine?”
“Ten,” Joffrey replied with a touch of steel in that squeamish voice of his.
“Nearly a man then,” Robert muttered. Still a cub by the look of his scarlet tunic embellished with gold on gold on gold.
“Show him your sword, Joffrey,” Cersei said.
Joffrey grinned and unsheathed his longsword from its ornate gold scabbard. The blade was a rippled red that shone like fresh blood with a lion’s head pommel devouring a ruby heart. He tested the flat against his hand before slicing it in a single arc to the awe of every onlooker. The sword whistled as they did.
“A fine blade, my prince,” Jon remarked.
“I know. Grandfather had it forged at the turn of the year in honour of my service.”
Robert grunted. “Service?”
“Outlaws,” the boy replied. “A pack of lowborn brigands. We caught them stealing from toll collectors. Grandfather had me handle the matter. As a prince should.”
His mother leaned forward. “Tell them how you punished them, Jof—“
“I can speak for myself.” Joffrey glared down his mother but smiled proudly as he began, “We had them stripped bare and flogged at the pillory for a week. The men were begging by the end and the woman was half-starved in her own stool, so I gave them a touch of mercy and let them go back to their hovels. But now they know never to steal. Lest they want a taste of the king’s justice again.”
“Here, here,” came a cry. “To Prince Joffrey the Just,” came another as every grubby little lord and lady commended the boy as if he’d won a battle.
Robert stifled his scoff. Nearly killing some gutter-born thief was not the work of kings. Still, the boy’s stare was on him; half challenge but half whelp wanting for a kennelmaster’s compliments. Was there something of worth there in those gold green eyes? He had sprouted half a dozen inches more and held that blade of his without shaking. Had he found his manhood beyond his mother’s skirts? Maybe that beating did you good. Maybe it shaped you into something better than a prideful cub. Maybe. Maybe.
He raised his cup in toast at Jon Arryn’s silent gesture. “Well done, lad. You know how to use that thing properly?”
“Grandfather’s knights have been teaching me.”
“He’s to squire with Ser Jaime,” Cersei chimed in. “A fine knight for a fine prince.”
Robert snorted. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? “A pretty thing like your brother? The only thing a kingsguard knows to fight is shadows and old men. You want to be a warrior, you’ll train with warriors.” The king rose with a swallowed laugh and a fresh proclamation. “A tourney then. Bring your knights and your beady-eyed squires. Gold, silvers and a place in the king’s yard for the winners.”
“A fine idea, Your Grace,” called Jon Arryn. “A grand tourney, I say. A boon to chivalry and an honour to be won by the daring and the dutiful.”
Robert gave his own “here, here” with a look to that green-eyed hag. Say a word now, woman. Be the harridan I know you are.
She only pursed her lips and toasted them before sinking into her wine to stew.
Though he had no time to celebrate his victory. A single look at the hall reminded him it was but one battle won. There was still a war to be fought. He felt naked standing there on the field looking down at his empty cup. Moments felt like hours after he retreated but Robert seemed to notice it all. Even as it all bled together and passed him by.
Then a small hand tugged at his arm. “Father?”
He looked down to find a girl. A little golden-haired girl with cheeks as soft and round as summer clouds. “Eh?”
“I… I wanted to ask you a question, Father,” Myrcella squeaked.
Robert hesitated. Once they had boasted of the girl as if she were the very image of her mother. He did not think so. Her eyes were green and gold-specked but without flame. Like spring-lit grass more than anything else. It reminded him strangely of Lady Cassana. Are you mine, girl? Are you your mother in colour but mine in heart?
He was too afraid to find out. He only nodded but looked away, unable to meet that little girl’s wanting stare.
“Is my sister here?”
Robert froze. His eyes darted to find Cersei as he prayed she did not hear.
But it was another worthless prayer as she appeared before them with a leering look. “Half-sister,” Cersei reminded Myrcella before looking to him. “But… she is right. Where is the girl? I hear she is almost a princess now.”
“In her rooms, Your Grace,” Jon answered for him.
“That won’t do. She is the king’s daughter. A commoner’s bastard. But still his daughter. Bring her here. I’d like to see her.”
His fists clenched. His breath stopped. In a blink he had risen and nearly toppled the table. In another blink she would smile no more.
Then a thin hand steadied him. Jon Arryn and his weary silence, beseeching him only to trust. Once twice he breathed in and out to collect his rage before calling for his daughter. The world slowed as he waited before those towering doors opened and she emerged and the court fluttered around her waiting for their pickings. Gaze on the floor and hair braided back, Mya Stone carried herself with a careful gait. The clever girl had worn her Baratheon bastard-blacks but without her white harts. Save for those unmistakable blue eyes she seemed no more than some forgettable lord’s daughter.
My daughter. Cursed that I was when I had forgotten her.
“Your Grace,” Mya said with a deep bow. Even her voice was a shade lighter. One of Jon Arryn’s lessons Robert had never cared for, but thanked the gods for now.
Cersei tilted her head. “Myra, is it?”
“Mya,” Robert corrected her with a subtle nod to his daughter. That’s how she catches you, girl. Correct her and you lose. Say nothing and you lose.
“Mya…” the witch drawled. “What a pretty dress you wear? Did you make it yourself?”
Mya weighed the question. “No, Your Grace. They were a gift from Lord Arryn.”
“You must have inherited the king’s stubby hands, yes? A shame. Would you care to learn?”
His daughter paused. Stay calm, girl.
“If it pleases you, Your Grace.”
The witch smiled. “It would,” she said quietly. “I know so little of you. Who was your mother? Do you know?”
“She was an alewife, Your Grace.”
“She must have been an extraordinary alewife then,” Cersei mumbled only loud enough for him to hear before adding loudly, “Her name?”
Mya hesitated and shot a glance to him. “I don’t know it, Your Grace.”
“Oh?” She turned to Robert. “What a pity.”
Jon Arryn rose hastily. “Perhaps… we might see a play, Your Grace? I hear the mummers of the West would put even Braavos to shame.”
“Yes,” the witch drawled, through with her interrogation. “Bring them out. I could not in good spirit deprive the court of such talent.”
Robert rolled his eyes. A thousand scoffs was too little. Talent? What talent? Talent to smile and sing when told and pretend it was not a pathetic lie. A patron of art and music they called her. Light of the West, the minstrels sung. The Lionheart, the mummers played. But all Robert could think of was Mya Stone. Court was no place for her. Court here court now. What was he thinking bringing her here? He had played the game and thought it a victory but had forgotten a retreating enemy was not yet defeated. He should have broken them.
A familiar voice from the crowd called out at the end of the last act. “Might we have another?”
“Another?” Cersei asked, brow raised with her lips petulant.
“Yes,” said the lady in white with a gleaming pale face and a smile and a cup in toast. “I am fond of the Life of Lann and Loren’s Last Laugh, and had not heard of the Red Queen until now. But I long for something close to home. But only if you are amenable, Your Grace.”
“I am,” Robert answered before the witch could open her mouth. “Name your wish, Lady Lynesse.”
His beautiful woman smiled. “What of the tale of Durran Godsgrief? Of Elenei? Whose beauty lured him from his mortal wife and gave him the fury to build upon cliffs which even the god’s waves could not break? Might you sing to me of Storm’s End?” She turned to the mummers. “Surely you know the one?”
The mummers stammered like halfwitted mules, “I…”
“It seems not,” Cersei said, unamused. “Do forgive me, husband, my lords, my ladies. I am terribly tired after such a long journey. Might I have your leave to retire?”
Jon Arryn seemed happier than he. “Shall I send the last cakes and breads do your chambers, Your Grace?”
“No… in fact. Let the servants sit and dine. Our leal soldiers in the barracks as well. They have served our king well these years. They should be rewarded.”
Jon nodded warily. “Of course. How generous of you.”
“It takes nothing to be kind. Good eve, Lord Hand.” Though before she and her brood made their farewells and left there was one last quip left for him. “Do you remember your home?”
A shudder passed through Robert at the sudden sincerity of her ask. “What?”
“Do you remember? The smell of Storm’s End?”
He searched for the trick in her question and found nothing. Just that cunning tongue that was trick alone. Still the ask had still sent him reeling. The salt of Storm’s End was so strong you could lick it off the air. He could recall the idea of it. The tale of it. But the true memory was gone. A single day in King’s Landing had robbed him of that. A single day of this. Of her.
Robert did not respond. She smiled, undoubtedly pleased, and walked away.
The calm finally settled on the hall as night fell proper and the lords departed for their rooms. The songs went from precious old tunes to the jeer heard in a soldier’s barrack. Robert snorted. How easy it was to live when there wasn’t a sword at your neck.
Though Jon Arryn refused to enjoy it.
“Where are you going?” Robert asked him. “You can finally relax and now you leave.”
Jon fidgeted with his wrinkled hand. “I have a matter to broach with Lord Tywin Lannister. Important matters. I will call on you later.”
He scoffed and reached for a cup. “Have it your way. Just… send a guard to Mya’s door.”
“I already have,” Jon mumbled, unable to meet his eye.
The old man’s sour moods left Robert worse for wear of late. Rare enough was a sighting of Lord Jon Arryn. Rarer yet was a scene where his Hand even deigned to speak with him. Rarest of all was Robert’s own spirits high and mighty. No beast but the old falcon could bring him so low. No man could make him feel so small but that old fool.
Not long after, the king departed without a second’s thought.
The sconces on the wall were half dead, painting sad shadows that chased him through the corridors like a crowd of beggars wanting wanting always wanting something wordless from him. A parched mouth and pained back was all he had earned today. A curse amidst a cauldron swirling with a fury as worse as his headpain that led him lost and astray to chambers that were not his own.
The guard outside was breathless with his hands on his knees. The chamber within was empty. “She… she ran off, sire—“
Robert punched the wall. “Seven Above, one fucking ask!”
Through and through the Kitchen Keep now he searched for that black-crowned block-headed sloven of a girl. He found Mya Stone tucked away in the scullery and butteries with the servants and without a damned care to the open doors behind her. Anyone would come through. Anyone.
Robert stopped, frozen. The woman beside his daughter wore red as bright as scarlet dawn and hair like spun gold. That witch. He knew this would happen. She has promised him so all those years ago. But to be so brazen and carry the dagger herself?
Mya’s eyes went wide at his sudden appearance. “Father…”
When he moved to confront Cersei she turned to him. He frowned and stepped back.
The woman curtsied. “Your Grace.” Her hair was gold. Her skin fair. Her eyes emerald green. With a face striking enough to strike but only a head shorter than he. This was not the hag.
“Who are you?” Robert demanded quietly.
“I am Medeya, Your Grace. From the lands of Myr.”
He had heard that name. Gods, where had he heard that name? “The red priestess?”
She chuckled briefly. “You honour with ‘the.’ I am but one amongst many.”
“What are you doing here? With my daughter?”
“She was here first,” Mya blurted. “I was…”
“You were sneaking into the kitchens to find a pack of honeyfingers weren’t you? I’ll deal with you in a moment. You, Myrishwoman…” Robert paused. Thoros had been of Myr. That old drunkard had not loved his home given how little he had spent there. But he always refused to forego the title. He was from where he was.
And now he’s dead, that’s what he is. Where was I then?
Medeya of Myr cocked a brow, so similar to that queenly bitch. “Your Grace?”
He huffed. “I’ve not a damned clue to who you are or why you’re here. But get on. I don’t need you sniffing around my daughter, you hear me? Off with you now.”
She eyed him for a moment before leaving. A flicker of a glance with a gaze so much like Cersei Lannister but so far from it. He could not truly say which look perturbed him more. The one he knew or the one he did not.
His daughter eyes were blue and bashful and far easier to read. “Father, I—“
“What are you doing here? Food is it? A servant’s gossip? Is that what you want? Or a dagger in your stomach? Is that you want?”
Mya flushed red. “It wasn’t—“
“What did I tell you, girl!” Robert roared as he gripped her hair tight and pinched her ear. “Do I need to beat this lesson into you? Or do I need to kill you myself so you finally learn fear? Eh?”
“I’m sorry. I am!”
Robert let go. You will be. You will be now that she’s here. Watch the doors and watch the walls. Maegor had his secrets but he was only half as cruel as her. Watch the walls and who waits within them.
When he finally calmed, he took her cheek in his hand. “That woman. The Myrishwoman. What did she say to you?”
Mya kept her gaze to the floor. “She said even a bastard like me has power.”
“What?”
“King’s blood,” she said as she stared at him defiantly. “She said I had king’s blood.”
Robert pursed his lips and said quietly, “Aye. That you do. Get on now. If I catch you again…”
“I know,” she replied, stomping off half-steaming.
He sighed. “Greenfield.”
“Sire,” the kingsguard replied.
“Have Ser Barristan watch her. Day and night. I don't care if I'm keeping him from guarding the Father himself. He is to see only to Mya Stone. Understand?”
“And you?”
“Get going. Now.”
He could still feel the warm air from where she had just stood, but as he tried to grab a piece of it, he found his fist cold and empty.
Night had brought a sweeping chilled wind to howl through the castle. But even at his chambers he found no respite, for the witch herself had returned with her golden brother and her father’s gifted guards leashed in her shadow.
“I’ve had enough of you, woman. You’ve had your fun. Fu—“
“Now now, husband.” Cersei shook her head with an obnoxious tut-tut. “Must we be so hostile? I only meant to leave a gift for you.”
“A gift…” He was not blind enough to see her guard’s hand hovering above his hilt. Is that what this is then? Goad me into it? Try your luck.
“Yes,” she said with a wide smile. “For your whore. Is she here? She certainly had the courage at that feast.”
“You won’t—“
Cersei turned her gaze behind him. “There she is.”
Robert could feel her warmth approach and press against his side. “Oh, Your Grace,” Lynesse Hightower said in feigned shock. “What a surprise to find you here. I must admit, I too grow lost in these halls. Spending so much time away… it is expected one might… lose their place.”
The witch returned the courtesy with an unamused smile that made Robert half-beam. “Hmph. As I was saying… I had a gift for you, Lady Hightower.” She outstretched a small jar. “It’s porcelain. From the Far East. Don’t mind the smell. Moon tea can be pungent, and the taste I hear is awfully bitter. But it is a needful in any whore’s life.”
He clenched his fists. “You fucking—“
Lynesse brushed him aside and accepted it. “Might you a tip on how to stomach it? I only mean to learn from the best.”
Cersei’s brother stepped forward but was quelled by a single motion of her hand. “We’re only talking, Ser Jaime. Are we not?”
Then the jar fell and shattered and spilled its pungent drink across the tails of the witch’s dress. She stepped back and sneered.
“Oh, dear,” Lynesse said. “How clumsy of me. Regardless, I tire of this. And believe me, Your Grace. I have no need for such a vile potion. The idea… oh, the very thought of a king’s babe in my womb brings me such joy. To hold him.” She kissed Robert’s arm once in full impropriety, and then levelled her stare at Cersei. “Black of hair. Blue of eye. What better dream is there?”
Robert looked down at that vile woman, beaten at last, and smiled.
“What a pretty face you have,” was all Cersei had to say before she disappeared into the darkness of the corridor from whence she'd came.
Finally, he threw open the doors and half tossed his woman inside with his manhood raging beneath his waist. His hands upon her face raged with the rest of his panicked fury. “What were you thinking?”
“Of you,” Lynesse bit back. “Do you think me some weeping damsel? I need no knight nor dame to save me from the likes of her.” She laughed at his grunt. “Take this off me. Tear it off me as you like to do. Take me, but do not chide me.”
“You—“
“Don’t.” Lynesse took his palm and pressed it to her cheek. “You want to hurt her. So do I. But hurt me. Now. Hurt me. Show me, Robert. Show me.”
Robert never could bruise that pale pretty face. But he had no such qualms about what Jon Arryn would never see. No qualms at all when she squealed and screamed and blushed as crimson as the bruises on her behind or cried a sweet cry that left her as wet in the eye just as below. When he finished his work inside her he crumbled into his featherbed and let her have her way, tussling through his hair like a doe in her forest kingdom.
But night came and went on and still there was no solace. He studied his canopy again, wondering.
Lynesse straddled him, lips above his own. “What if I was your queen?”
“Talk sense, woman. I’ve had enough of games.”
“It’s no game. Must a king remain with a queen he despises? Did Maegor not set aside whomever he wished?”
“Am I such a king as Maegor?” Robert asked dryly.
“You are such a king as you wish to be. Law is second to your word. Say the word, Robert. Say it I am yours.”
His tongue and mind went at war. Duelling and duelling and duelling with his heart on one end and Jon Arryn at the other, frowning. Silence defeated them all.
“I love you,” she told him. “Don’t you love me?”
He almost wanted to laugh. Kings don’t love, woman. If we did we would be men. Men can love. Men can hold the world in their hands and never think of what is tomorrow. When I was a man I had love as ripe as a summer peach. When I was a man I had it all.
“Robert?”
In the dark her voice could be anyone. If he just closed his eyes the word might come. “L…”
“Robert…”
“I do,” he finally said before he shut his eyes to sleep and hear no more of it.
In his dream there was a high tide retreated to his ankles. Seaweed had dried to his legs wrung of water with a cracked misshapen smile. When he moved to brush it away it shifted into a hand of fire that consumed him whole.
Then a midnight knock against the door shook him awake.
His woman slept as gracefully as ever basked in starlight. He stole a lock of her hair fallen onto the pillows for good luck and dressed, knowing those taps upon the door as if they were still against his skull as a boy. Jon Arryn stood alone hunched over his silver falcon cane with a fraught look that bothered Robert to no end. This was the longest he was away from his tower and this is how he spent it.
“Jon.” Robert grit his teeth. “If you want company in the night that steward of yours would have done.”
The old man began to waddle off. “We need to talk.”
He frowned and followed. “If this is about Lynesse.”
“I will spare no breath on that chastisement. I have spent a lifetime on pointless affairs. We need to talk. Come with me.”
Down the long winding halls did he fly behind the old falcon until they reached the doors behind the throne room.
Jon stopped before the door. His face was glistening. “I have kept something from you. A few weeks past… news from Lord Tywin. It is grave news.”
Robert shifted. “Why are you crying, Jon?”
“Because I am an old man,” he said as he pushed the door open. “With so many mistakes.”
Inside, the iron throne waited for them. The fire reflected a thousand smiles in its grotesque black form. Kingsguard at its side were swallowed by its shadow as a Lannister lord waited by its foot. The Hand took his place on his oak throne and beckoned the king sit. Before him now the Conqueror’s monster seemed taller than the Lance.
“Your Grace. Do pardon the late intrusion,” said Tywin Lannister.
“Better have a damned good reason,” Robert muttered. The handles had scraped his skin ever so slightly.
In the distance he spotted a red-robed woman by a pillar swimming in a pool of little children. Her eyes were glossy green like a serpent.
“What is this…”
Lord Lannister stepped forward. “I fear we are under threat. Last moon I received word—“
Jon Arryn cleared his throat, “Perhaps, Lord Lannister, it would be best if the Lady Medeya recounted her tale. This is not news we can afford to miss a single detail. Thank you for bringing it our attention.”
The old lion puckered his face like an angry fish but stepped aside.
“Lady Medeya. Step forward.”
Each echoed step set him on edge. A black-haired boy clung to her hand as she met them with a voice as sweet but fiery as the summer sun. “Forgive the subterfuge, Lord Hand. I could not bring this forward directly for I feared reprisals from your Faith.“
“I understand,” Jon said. “As I hear it, you approached Queen Cersei. At Casterly Rock, did you not?”
“Yes. Though it would seem I was born for such a task,” she said as she gestured to her own eery likeness. “As the Lord wills it.”
“Hm. Tell us what you told the queen and Lord Lannister.”
She looked to Robert. “A history lesson first…. so you might understand. Across the sea, the realm of Pentos is under the vassalage of Braavos. As it has been for nearly nighty years. As such, armies, sellswords… men of any note that pass between the lands of Myr, my home, and the Sealord’s realm must be permitted passage. A licence, if you would. These documents ensure Myr cannot be held liable for whatever actions men might take in their cause. My old mentor, Kaeros, is consul of Myr. A well-informed man, who means no ill-will to the iron throne but is aware of your past. He informed me that one Myles Toyne recently sought and was approved passage to the property of Illyrio Mopatis in Pentos.”
Robert could feel his heart beat in his ears. “Toyne. Toyne. Where have I heard that name?”
“Simon Toyne of the Kingswood Brotherhood,” Jon answered.
“His last descendant is this Myles. An exile, and Captain-General of the Golden Company,” Lord Lannister noted.
He could feel the iron fingers of the throne wrap around his body. “Golden Company… and this Mopatis?”
”Illyrio is a cheesemonger,” the priestess said. “With wealth beyond measure, they say. Though once, he was a bravo in the streets of Myr and Pentos and Lys, until he married the maiden daughter of a Pentoshi Prince and amassed his great fortune and patronage.”
“Mopatis is not unknown to us,” Jon said. “Trade dealings with Pentos are hardly uncommon. It is his company that is cause for concern.”
“Mopatis’ close friend and the man responsible for much of his fortune is Varys.”
“Varys?” Robert frowned, suddenly realising the absence of their supposed spymaster. “Where is that damned woman?”
“Gone,” answered Tywin Lannister.
“Gone?”
“He has been gone a fortnight,” Jon continued. “Apartments bear. No word. Nothing.”
The priestess took a step closer. Her gaggle of children wandered behind. “I… must admit. I have been stealing from Varys for some time. His, little birds, as he calls them. His correspondences. His comings and goings.”
“Why?” Jon asked.
“We were acquainted. In my country he was… a prince.”
“A prince?”
“Of a sort. A prince of thieves and schemes in the underbellies of a hundred cities. His campaign against my order was not subtle, Your Grace. His poisoners, his tongueless children, his hired blades. I have faced them all. I even believe he had your High Septon killed some years ago. And an archsepton last year, for which my countryman was framed and executed. For this my proof is circumstantial. But… for his true plot…”
“Enough.” He gritted his teeth. “Enough games. No more lessons. Get to the gods-forsaken point.”
She lifted her chin and said, “King Robert. I believe Varys is and has been in league with the Targaryens across the sea.”
Robert could hear the iron throne cackle cackle cackle and plunge its venomous black blades into his throat. He looked down at Jon. “Talk. Now.”
The old man sifted through a pile of parchment and ledgers. “Lord Lannister and I have verified Lady Medeya documents and Varys’ belongings. Coded messages, half of which we cannot translate. What we could… well. There are consistencies.”
“I swear to the Stranger, Jon—“
“Names, Your Grace. This Mopatis. Toyne. A man named Strickland. And notably, one Galwon Severed-Hand.”
“Who?”
“Galwon was the name of the first Griffin King,” Lord Tywin answered. “A severed hand would likely refer to the obvious.”
Robert rose in rage at the realisation. “Connington… Jon fucking Connington. That whoreson still lives?”
Jon Arryn sighed and said in his rattled voice, “The most frequent mention is to… a boy.”
“Viserys,” he murmured. “Viserys. It has to be.”
“Your Grace. We do not know if it is truly—“
“Who in all the Seven Hells would it be!” Robert bellowed. “Why else would that eunuch flee? Cockless coward. Sowing his schemes to all of us none the wiser.“
The old lion cleared his throat. “My disdain for rumour and calumny is great, Your Grace. But my distrust for that simpering eunuch is greater. King Aerys was fond of his whispers and the shadows within them. This suspicion of Connington and the cheesemonger is but formality. The eunuch’s disappearance is reason enough. We must act.”
He could feel fire writhing within the throne. It would never end until they were dead. Every last one of them. The thought consumed him so terribly that he nearly tripped down the throne, saved only by his cut bloodied hand. “I want them dead,” Robert said no louder than a whisper. “Ill-born dragonspawn. We solve this now. I want Viserys, the girl. The eunuch and his cheesemonger. Toyne and Connington and their whole damned army. I want their heads on a spike! Gods be damned I’ll tear down the walls of Pentos myself if I must!”
The old fool’s voice was shaking, “We will send emissaries to Myr to gather more information. I have already sent summons to Lord Stannis and the council. But… our reach is limited. Varys… this castle… we ourselves may be compromised.”
“I don’t care. You, woman. Witch. Whatever you are. What do you want from this?”
The priestess’ voice remained calm. “It may seem strange, but my work in King’s Landing was not yet done. There are women and children I was forced to leave behind in fear. I would like to see them again. Safe.” All her little children looked up him but he could not bear to look back.
“You’ll have it. But you won’t walk away from this. If you are so sure, you will stay until I have Viserys Targaryen’s head on a platter. If not, it will be yours. I won’t tolerate another conniving spymaster.”
“You are most gracious, sire.”
Jon stood up in protest. “Your Grace—“
Robert ignored him. “You. Lannister. You’ll get whatever reward you wanted. But get on, now. All of you! Get out of my sight! The king must speak with his Hand.”
Back and forth he paced that empty hall as he ensured he never spared a single glance at that accursed throne with “Viserys Viserys Viserys” on his tongue. The storm was coming the storm was coming. Somehow he had known.
“Robert. Think about this. The red priestess—“
“Don’t,” he spat with an accusing finger. “I told you. Didn’t I? We should have had his head. Varys was your doing. You. Viserys as well. I wanted him. I should have crossed the sea and found him as a boy all those years ago. But you, you and Ned. All your talk of stability and reason and look at us now!”
“I know. We-—I have made mistakes.” Jon gripped his arm weakly. “But that woman? She is dangerous, Robert. The Septry has called for the exile of their order. We are to pass that law momentarily. To elevate her to the court? Now?”
“Law? Law? Fuck you, Jon. Dragons across the sea and you preach to me of a septon’s law!”
“Robe—“
He roared so loud it silenced the old man. Still the thought was his as well. That woman was not normal, and he was not fool enough to trust a thing that wore Cersei’s skin. “She did more today than Varys did in thirteen years. But if she steps out of line, it’s the headsman for her. She’s not to leave the castle until I have Viserys. Viserys, Jon. You won’t get anything from me until I have his heart in my hand. You hear me?”
“I… I understand.”
“No, you don’t. You old fool. No, you don’t.”
He ran. He ran from that place and that chair. Dragons stags laughing lions and serpents he could not see haunted his every step. A menagerie of madness charging toward him as he ran away. The line was broken the line was broken and a demon was at the helm. Black in heart and black of armour. In his mind there was a boy who grew to be a man no different from the monster of his brother. In his eyes there was a young woman pale and fair waiting for him. Someone was coming to take her away.
“Robert?” Lynesse asked, still nude as she held him. “Your hand… you’re bleeding.”
“Lynesse…” he said breathlessly.
His blood smeared across her cheek as he brushed past her. There were horns blaring and no time. Wind blew through his windows harsh enough to blow banners from their bolts. And in his hands there was a hammer.
“Robert, where are you going?”
“To war.” To war to war war war war which he found in the darkness of a cellar deep below it all. Beneath Aegon’s castle where his footsteps were war drums and his whispers battle cries and the scuttling of rats, hordes of men. To below where the beasts of judgement slept and waited for their master's return. Where the wind wrapped around their jagged black jaws and rows of teeth like swords. In the darkness the skulls were alive, watching him. All his life he had heard of the wonder of the dragon. Lord Steffon had loved them. Even these ruins of them. And even in his hatred Robert could not bear to such monuments destroyed.
How wrong he had been.
The one before him was no larger than an oxcart. Up and up and the hammer rose until it crashed through the snout of that monstrous thing. The hammer clanked as if crushing iron as he crushed each one he could. The smallest like a dog’s skull and the largest growling as he spat on their spawn again and again until he reached the end where the mammoth waited. The true beast. Blacker than death and glittering with a smile. Cersei’s smile and Rhaegar’s smile daring him so through Balerion’s dreaded black gaze.
But try as he did, the beast would not crack. Again and again until the struck bone echoed like a laugh and dented his warhammer, sending a crack down its spine until it clattered to the ground with him, defeated.
On the ground he could think of only one thing. In the stories there was a grandmother he had never known. A ghost-like woman half-imagined in that sunken hole that he thought to call a heart but was more a box locked without a key. He could hear his mother inside it, humming. He could feel the other thing passing its shadow across it, beckoning him to think of it never again.
When a warm light touched his back he wondered if Balerion’s children had woken to take their revenge.
But it was only Jon Arryn. Tapping away with his cane and a torch in hand.
The old man picked up a piece of bone. “Dragonbone is mightily rare. Expensive. They might have been useful. Eased a burden on our treasury.”
“Our treasury…” Robert muttered in disbelief.
“It’s worth saying, don’t you think? War is costly. And they say the oldest of these skulls is three thousand years old. A relic of the old freehold.”
“Jon… Get out…”
“You were right. I remember the way they hung in the throne room. Leering down above the throne. The way they would whisper to Aerys. Selling him a new lie at the cost of… at the cost of us. Of…” Jon tossed the bone into the dark. His torchlight was going out. “We should have destroyed them. Ground them into dust and passed them along to the wind. Instead we brought them here… Beneath our feet. A lair for their slumber.”
“I’m going to kill them,” Robert swore. “Every last one of them. I’ll take that boy king’s head myself.”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
He looked up at the old man and snarled. “Watch me.”
Jon kept his eyes on him, his face and fury illuminated by the fire. “Did you know Eddard is alive?”
“Wha—“ Robert could hardly breathe. “What?”
“Yes… a letter just this morning from Castle Black. They found him. Strange how things keep… coming back.”
“I don’t…” He slammed the ground. “I don’t know what you want from me, old man. I don’t know what you’re saying. I don’t understand you. You hear me?”
“Oh, I hear you. But sometimes I wonder if you hear yourself. I wonder if you still think yourself that king on the chariot grinning as the masses cheered him on. Or that boy by the river knowing nothing but that day. I wonder if you know where you are right now.” From his cloak Jon retrieved Robert’s crown. He threw it and the torch to the ground. Its light sputtered and died. In the darkness there was only his voice. “I know you love Lynesse Hightower. That woman… what a queen she would have been. She gave Mya Stone quite the fright searching for you. Sensible child who came to me in pursuit of her father. Of you. This is what you will do, Robert. You will get up and pick up your crown and find her. You will kiss her on the brow and tell her that you will be right here, by her side. You will tell her when war comes, others will fight and die for you. You will tell her that you will rule as a king must to keep her safe. Because you love her. Because if you do not. If you choose to pick up your hammer and chase dragons across the sea and throw your life away for nothing, I will not tell her it was for glory or the realm or some noble notion. I will tell her the truth. That your rage for a dead man was greater than your love for your daughter.”
And then he walked away.
And in the silence Robert could taste his own tears.
But when finally he rose, he lost his way. “Jon,” he cried out. “Jon, come back.” But his old father was gone. He was alone. Like a shadow in darkness. He was nothing. Just nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing.