At King’s Landing…
Eddard Stark is seen walking down a hallway with his guardsman Tomard.
The two had been talking of Lord Stark’s findings regarding the parentage of Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen Baratheon.
Eddard suggested they inform Daveth of the decision, but he was nowhere to be seen.
A horn soon blared loud enough for them to hear.
“So Robert has returned from his hunt,” Eddard said.
Yet somehow… something was wrong.
Eddard turned and saw Renly Baratheon running towards him, panting heavily and his green vest spattered with blood.
“Ned!” Renly shouted.
“It’s Robert.
We were hunting… a boar…” he tried to warn, motioning Eddard and Tomard to follow him.
Surprised yet shocked as he is, Eddard rushed towards Robert’s chambers.
Inside, he saw Cersei, Daveth, Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen, Barristan Selmy, and Grand Maester Pycelle all present.
The Baratheon children stood beside their father; Joffrey held Robert’s hand, his eyes watering at the sight.
Myrcella and Tommen sniffled and sobbed.
Daveth, on the other hand, stood in front of Robert, his face as stoic and unchanged.
Daveth had to put on a strong aura.
He had to be strong, not for himself, but for the sake of his younger siblings.
Daveth knew his father was going to die.
“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” Daveth quietly hushed as Myrcella and Tommen turned to embrace their eldest brother to cry quietly.
“Easy now,” he spoke calmly.
Joffrey looked as if he himself were going to cry, too.
“I should have spent more time with you two, shown you how to be a man,” Robert lamented weakly to Daveth and Joffrey; his face was pale as milk.
“I was never meant to be a father.”
Daveth somehow knew this would eventually happen; his father had returned from the hunt but was mortally wounded by a boar.
Even in Robert’s condition, the smell of his wounds filling the room, Daveth swore he could smell a hint of potent wine.
‘Drinking and hunting don’t mix, father…’ he thought.
You shouldn’t have done such a foolish thing…’
The king’s own steward opened the door; his face might have been carved of stone, for so little did it show.
“Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King.”
“Bring him in,” Robert called, thick with agonizing pain.
Servants moved back and forth, feeding logs to the fire and boiling wine.
Cersei Lannister sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband.
Her hair was tousled, as if from sleep, but there was nothing sleepy in her eyes.
They followed Ned as Tomard and Cayn helped him cross the room.
He seemed to move very slowly, as if he were still dreaming.
The King still wore his boots.
Ned could see dried mud and blades of grass clinging to the leather where Robert’s feet stuck out beneath the blanket that covered him; a green doublet lay upon the floor, slashed open and discarded, the cloth crusted with red-brown stains.
The room smelled of smoke and blood and death.
“Go on,” Robert told his children.
“You don’t want to see this.”
Daveth held a crying Myrcella and Tommen; he placed his hand on Joffrey’s shoulder, making the young Baratheon look at his older brother.
“Come, Joffrey.”
Joffrey was still visibly upset but surprisingly did not resist and simply obeyed his brother—the four walking out of the room.
“My fault,” Robert said to Eddard weakly.
“Too much wine, missed my thrust.”
Eddard walked over to Robert’s bedside and lifted the blanket.
They had done what they could to close him up, but it was nowhere near enough.
The boar must have been a fearsome thing.
It had ripped the king from groin to nipple with its tusks.
The wine-soaked bandages that Grand Maester Pycelle had applied were already black with blood, and the smell of the wound was hideous.
Eddard’s stomach turned, and he let the blanket fall.
“It stinks.
It stinks like death.
Don’t think I can’t smell it.
I paid the bastard back, Ned,” Robert chuckled before letting out a few coughs.
His smile was as terrible as his wound, his teeth red with blood.
“I drove my knife right through his brains.
You ask them if I did.
Ask them!”
Renly, Cersei and Barristan didn’t find any of Robert’s boasting amusing at all.
They didn’t say a word.
“I want the funeral feast to be the biggest the kingdoms ever saw.
And I want everyone to taste the boar that got me.
Now leave us, the lot of you.
I need to talk to Ned.”
“Robert, my sweet…” Cersei began.
“Out, all of you!” Robert insisted with a hint of his old fierceness.
On Robert’s demand, Cersei gathered up her skirts and her dignity and led the way to the door.
Renly and the others followed.
Grand Maester Pycelle lingered, his hands shaking as he offered the dying king a cup of thick white liquid.
“The milk of the poppy, Your Grace,” he said.
“Drink.
For your pain.”
Robert knocked the cup away with the back of his hand.
“Away with you.
I’ll sleep soon enough, old fool.
Get out.”
Grand Maester Pycelle gave Ned a stricken look as he shuffled from the room and shut the door.
“You damned fool,” Eddard said when they were alone, lowering himself to the bed beside his friend.
“Ah, fuck you, Ned,” Robert said hoarsely.
His laugh turned into a grunt as a spasm of pain hit him.
“Gods have mercy,” he muttered, swallowing his agony.
He lifted his hand, the gesture pained and feeble.
“Paper and ink are there on the table; write down what I tell you.”
Eddard smoothed the paper out across his knee and took up the quill.
“At your command, Your Grace.”
“‘In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of…’ you know how it goes.
Fill in the damn titles.
‘I hereby command Eddard of House Stark’ titles, titles.
‘To serve as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my… upon my death.
To rule in my…
my stead, until my son Daveth’s eighteenth nameday…'”
“Robert…” Eddard spoke, but no words would come.
The agony was written too plainly across Robert’s face; he could not hurt him more.
Eddard bent his head and wrote everything down, exactly as Robert commanded.
‘May the gods forgive me,’ he thought.
“Give it over,” Robert motioned.
Eddard handed over the letter and quill to Robert, who took it upon himself to sign it with his penmanship before handing it back to Eddard.
“Give it to the council after I’m dead,” he said through the pain.
“At least they’ll say I did this right, this one thing.
You’ll rule now, you and Daveth.
You’ll hate it worse than I did, but you’ll do it well.”
“Robert,” Eddard said in a voice thick with grief, “you must not do this.
Don’t die on me.
The realm needs you.”
Robert took his hand, fingers squeezing hard.
“You are… a terrible liar, Ned Stark.
The realm…
the realm knows… Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
what a wretched king I’ve been.
Bad as Aerys, the gods spare me.”
“No,” he told his dying friend, “not so bad as Aerys, Your Grace.
Not near so bad as Aerys.”
Robert managed a weak red smile as he winced in pain.
“The girl… Daenerys.
You were right.
Varys, Littlefinger, my brother.
Worthless… No one to tell me ‘no’ but you and Daveth… Only you two.
Let her live… Stop it… if it’s not too late.”
“I will,” Eddard replied.
“And my son… Daveth… There was… something I needed to tell him, but I… never could.
There’s a… letter for him by the… the door.
See that he gets it… He’ll need all the help he can get… Help him, Ned.
Make him better than me…”
“I’ll… I’ll do everything I can to honor your memory.”
“My memory,” he coughed in pain.
“King Robert Baratheon… murdered by a pig…” he continued to cough up blood.
The Stag King closed his eyes and seemed to relax.
“Give me something for the pain… and let me die…”
The servants rushed back in and hurried to feed the fires.
Grand Maester Pycelle hurriedly mixed him another draught of the milk of the poppy.
This time the king drank deeply.
His black beard was beaded with thick white droplets when he threw the cup aside.
“Will I dream?” Robert asked.
Eddard gave him his answer.
“You will, my friend.”
“Good,” he said, smiling as his voice started to fade.
“Take care of my children for me…”
The words twisted in Eddard’s belly like a knife.
For a moment he was at a loss for words.
He could not bring himself to lie.
He couldn’t bring himself to tell the dying Robert the truth regarding Joffrey’s, Myrcella’s, or Tommen’s parentage.
Then he remembered the bastards: little Barra at her mother’s breast, Gendry at his forge, and all the others.
“I… I will.
I’ll guard your children as if they were my own,” he said slowly.
Robert slowly nodded and closed his eyes for the last time.
Eddard watched his old friend sag softly into the pillows as the milk of the poppy washed the pain from his face.
Sleep took him.
Heavy chains jangled softly as Grand Maester Pycelle and Renly re-entered Robert’s chamber as Eddard Stark left.
Outside the door, Ser Barristan Selmy still guarded the tower stairs with Varys and Eddard.
“He was reeling from the wine,” Barristan said, seeming old beyond his years.
“He commanded us to step aside, but… I failed him.”
Eddard shook his head.
“No man could have protected him from himself.”
“I wonder, Ser Barristan,” asked Varys, so quietly, “who gave the King this wine?”
“His squire, from the king’s own skin,” Barristan answered.
“His squire?” Eddard asked.
“The Lannister boy?”
Barristan nodded.
“Such a dutiful boy,” said Varys, “to make sure His Grace did not lack refreshment.
I do hope the poor lad does not blame himself.”
“Who will tell Daveth?” Eddard asked.
“I’ll do it,” Barristan said.
“It’s the least I can do for the boy.”
Eddard nodded, and Barristan left the room to find Daveth, intending to pass on the news of his father Robert’s death.
The Stark patriarch then took a moment to speak with Varys.
“His Grace has had a change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryen,” he said.
“Whatever arrangements you made, unmake them.
At once.”
Varys shook his head.
“I’m afraid those birds have flown.
The girl is likely dead.”
In Daveth’s chambers…
Daveth did everything he possibly could, but once Ser Barristan Selmy arrived to inform him that Robert was dead, little Myrcella and Tommen were crying loudly.
“It’s not fair!” wailed Myrcella.
“Papa!
Papa!”
“It can’t be true!
Tell us it’s not true, big brother!” sobbed Tommen.
Daveth felt utterly helpless.
He couldn’t think of anything that could settle his youngest brother and sister down.
No matter how hard he tried, nothing seemed to work.
The youngest of the Baratheon children continued to cry until their eyes were red and puffy and their cheeks were stained.
Joffrey tried to hide it as well, but even he had tears streaming down his face.
“Mother…” Daveth spoke quietly.
“Could you… take the children to their rooms?
Try to calm them, if you can?” he asked.
Cersei nodded.
“Come, children,” she called.
The three followed their mother to their own rooms, still upset.
Now alone with Ser Barristan, Daveth looked out the nearest window and heard the bells ringing.
*DING* *DING* *DING* *DING* *DING*
“I’m sorry, my boy,” Barristan spoke, laying a hand on Daveth’s shoulder.
“I couldn’t protect your father.”
Daveth shook his head.
“Do not blame yourself, Ser Barristan.
No one could have saved my father from himself, not even me.”
“Tell me.
Are you alright?”
“How do you think?”
Barristan noticed and didn’t press the issue.
The quiet was soon broken when Eddard Stark entered the room.
“Lord Stark,” Daveth despondently acknowledged.
“Your Grace,” Eddard greeted.
“There’s no need to start calling me that yet.
My coronation isn’t until a few days.”
“Even so.
You’re the new king now.”
“I’m well aware of that, Lord Stark.
Forgive me.
I suppose some part of me expected something like this would eventually happen.
Drinking and hunting don’t mix.”
“That they don’t.”
Silence filled the room again.
Daveth noticed Eddard carrying a piece of paper in his hand. The source of this chapter is g.com.
“Is that…?” he asked.
Eddard nodded.
“Your father asked that this be given to you.
That and his signet ring.
He wanted you to have it.”
Daveth took the signet ring and the letter, undoing the seal, and began reading—recognizing his father’s poor handwriting.
“To my firstborn son and heir Daveth Baratheon,
By the time you receive this letter, then that means I’m probably dead.
Perhaps you’d prefer to burn this damned thing unread.
I wouldn’t blame you for that; I never was a really good father to you.
Not that I was jealous of your growing power and influence or your damned reputation as ‘the Oathkeeper,’ but rather it was because it unnerved me to see that you had long surpassed me.
A hard thing for a man to admit, but it’s true.
When Jon Arryn told me of your accomplishments, I had dreamed of giving up the crown and passing it down to you.
Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer and spend my time warring and whoring; that’s what I was made for.
Some part of me knew you were more than ready for the responsibilities I never even bothered with.
What stopped me was that you were just a boy, and yet you still surpassed me nonetheless.
All at a very fast pace.
Jon Arryn told you that one day you will be king, but it’d be best for you to not let poisonous whispers sneak their way into your ear, whether it’s from your blasted mother, Littlefinger, or anyone else.
Remember, you might be half Lannister, but you are a Baratheon.
You know our words.
‘Ours is the Fury.
‘You’ve been good at keeping your emotions in check, more than I would have done, but don’t hesitate to release your fury on your enemies.
Show them how us Baratheons deal with our enemies.
I’m proud of you, son.
My only regret was that I couldn’t tell you before taking my last breath.
Signed,
Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name
King of the Andals and the First Men • Lord of the Seven Kingdoms • Protector of the Realm”
As he finished reading the letter again and again, Daveth felt his hands start to shake and his stoic face start to display emotions, disbelief turning into uncertainty.
He had never expected this from his father of all people.
*BAM!*
As he crumpled the paper in his hand, Daveth shouted and punched the nearest wall as hard as he could.
Eddard Stark and Ser Barristan were taken aback by this sudden outburst and rushed to check on Daveth.
The youth’s fist shook upon impact, bringing it down to reveal his bloodied knuckles.
“Damn you, Father…” Daveth lamented.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Your Grace…” Barristan approached Daveth.
He shook his head.
“I… Give me some time.
I need to focus on making the necessary arrangements for my father’s funeral… and see to my other duties, if I can keep my mind on them at all.
You two go on ahead.
I’ll catch up.”
Understanding Daveth’s feelings, both Eddard and Barristan nodded and bowed as they left the room.
Eddard looked back, believing that time should be allowed to pass and wounds to heal before the regent could break the news to the new king.
‘I may have failed to protect my friend… but I will not fail to protect his son,’ Eddard thought.
‘I promise you, Robert.
I’ll watch over Daveth from now on.’
At the Red Keep…
On his way to his chambers, Eddard Stark walked with his guards.
He noticed Renly Baratheon had been leaning against the closest pillar, apparently waiting for him.
“Lord Stark,” he called out, “a moment, alone if you will.”
Eddard motioned for his guards to leave.
Once they complied, Renly looked at the newly appointed regent.
“He named you Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm, didn’t he?” He didn’t wait for a reply.
“Cersei won’t care.
Give me an hour and I can put 100 swords at your command.”
“And what should I do with 100 swords?”
“Strike!
Tonight while the castle sleeps.
We must get Daveth and Joffrey away from their mother and into our custody.
Protector of the Realm or not, he who holds the king holds the kingdom.
We should seize Myrcella and Tommen as well.
Once we have her children, Cersei wouldn’t dare oppose us.
The Small Council will confirm you as Lord Protector and make Daveth your ward.”
Eddard narrowed his eyes coldly at Renly, not approving of this proposal.
“Lord Renly, Daveth is your nephew by blood.
The only one sired by Robert and the Queen; he is your brother’s lawful heir.”
Renly took a step back, taut as a bowstring.
“Every moment you delay gives Cersei another moment to prepare.
By the time Robert dies, it will be too late for the both of us.
The Lannisters are not as merciful as the gods are sometimes.”
“And if not Daveth, what about Stannis?”
“Saving the Seven Kingdoms from Cersei and delivering them to Daveth and Stannis?
You have odd notions of protecting the realm.”
“As I said, Renly, Daveth is your nephew by blood, and Stannis is your older brother.”
“This isn’t about the bloody line of succession!” Renly protested.
“That didn’t matter when you rebelled against the Mad King.
It shouldn’t matter now.
What’s best for the kingdoms?
What’s best for the people we rule?
We all know what Daveth is.
Yes, he commands respect, but he’s half Lannister himself.
Once he assumes control, he’ll fill his offices with men who don’t have the realm’s best interests at heart.
He’ll pretty much do whatever the Lannisters tell him.
And Stannis?
He inspires no love or loyalty.
They’re not kingly material.
I am.”
This bold (or yet brazenly stupid) act of proclamation shocked Eddard.
“You want me to spill blood in these halls?
Have you lost your mind, Lord Renly?”
Renly’s bravado appeared to fade.
“What?”
“Daveth is a skilled administrator and a prodigy.
He’s been groomed to inherit the throne from birth.
And Stannis is a commander who led men into war twice.
He destroyed the Greyjoy fleet.”
“Yes, they’re both good at what they do.
Daveth knows how to govern and get results at a very fast rate; everyone knows that.
Stannis is a good soldier; everyone knows that.
So was Robert.
Tell me something: Do you still believe good soldiers make good kings?
Do you believe shady people making shady deals make good kings?”
“I will not dishonor Robert’s memory by shedding blood in these halls and dragging frightened children from their beds.” Eddard refused to budge.
“And I will NOT dishonor the wishes of Robert’s only trueborn son.”
Eddard walked off to his chamber, while Renly was left behind agitated.
‘Such a shame, Lord Stark,’ he thought.
So be it…’