ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 37: The Poison of the Crown
POV: Prince Gendry Baratheon (301 AC)
The time in the South does not run like the clear, swift water of the rivers of the North that the Lord Hand so often describes; it drags like the thick mud of the swamps—hot, suffocating, and laden with an odor of rot that no amount of incense imported from Essos is capable of masking.
The past year, which marked the transition from the year 300 to the year 301 after the Conquest, was the longest and most exhausting period of my entire life. I was still a youth of fifteen when the world I knew began to shatter under my feet, and now, as I stare into the polished bronze mirror in my chambers at the Red Keep, I see the lines of tension beginning to shape my face prematurely and think about how the universe has a unique sense of humor.
The change did not come with the sounding of trumpets or the roar of dragons from the East. It came in the silence of a grey morning, with the sudden death of Jon Arryn.
His loss was something that hit us without any warning. One day, the old Lord of the Vale was walking through the gardens of the Red Keep with his usual erect posture and the stern look that always kept the vipers of the Small Council in their proper places; the next day, the fever consumed him, and he was gone before the sun finished setting.
Jon Arryn had not been just my father's Hand of the King, King Robert. To me, he was the only true father figure I ever knew. While my father spent his nights drowning in barrels of cheap wine, whoring with prostitutes in Flea Bottom, or losing himself in endless hunts in the Kingswood, it was Jon who sat me down at the oak table to teach me the history of the Seven Kingdoms, the realm's accounting, and the responsibility of carrying the blood of the Baratheons. His absence left an immense void in the Red Keep, a vacuum of power that the Southern factions began to fight over like ravenous dogs fighting for a scrap of rotting meat.
And at the center of this rot always stood the shadow of Lyanna Stark.
For as long as I can remember, the princess of the North was always a silent ghost haunting my father's chambers. Knowing that the Northern she-wolf had not only survived the rebellion, but had laid with Rhaegar Targaryen, borne his son—Prince Aemon, who now ruled the Far North—and lived happy and untouched in Winterfell, was an open wound in Robert Baratheon's soul that never stopped bleeding. My father never overcame the fact of being rejected; the fact that Lyanna preferred the blood of the dragon to his own raw love hurt him more than any blow from a stone axe.
I think the fact that he was married to my mother, Catelyn Tully, somehow made him blame her for this eternal frustration. Robert took out his inadequacy on the wife fate had imposed on him, even knowing perfectly well, in the depths of his drunken mind, that the Northern she-wolf would never have married him anyway, for her spirit was too free to be locked in a Southern court. My mother, in turn, responded to this contempt with a cutting coldness, creating a domestic environment where the silence was more painful than any war cry.
Everything changed with the arrival of the Starks in King's Landing.
Those lords and ladies of the Southern court who expected the arrival of an honorable, naive wolf who would be easily manipulated by the intrigues of Littlefinger or Varys soon realized the scale of the mistake they had made. The new Lord Hand, Eddard Stark, was not a man who let himself be easily swayed by whispers in the corridors. The Silent Wolf possessed a determination of iron, and his resistance to the court's manipulations was due, in large part, to the influence of his two wives, Cersei Lannister and Ashara Dayne.
Both had been raised under the light and complex rules of the Southern courts. Cersei, with her feline cunning inherited from Casterly Rock, and Ashara, with the diplomatic grace and watchful eyes of Dorne, knew perfectly how every gear of the Red Keep worked. They acted as Ned Stark's eyes and ears behind the scenes, shielding her husband from the hidden traps of the Small Council.
But the figure that truly captured my attention from the very first day of her arrival was Princess Arya Stark.
For years, Lord Tywin Lannister, had been secretly negotiating our betrothal with my father, an alliance that had been systematically blocked and prevented by my own mother. Catelyn Tully harbored a deep resentment for the royal family of the North—a hatred born from the humiliation of being rejected by Ned in the past and the sovereign rise of Winterfell itself. She disapproved of any approach to the Starks, claiming that the Free Folk and the Northmen were uncouth barbarians who did not deserve the blood of King's Landing.
However, Arya Stark proved to be anything but an ordinary ornamental lady. She did not impress only with her exotic, wild beauty, with those dark hair and grey eyes that looked like winter storms; what truly fascinated me was her indomitable strength.
A few months after her arrival, a group of Southern knights decided to test her patience in the training yard, mocking her skills with the slender sword she carried. Arya's reaction was immediate and overwhelming. Using the combat techniques she had learned from the warriors of Arawyn's Black Guard, she literally wiped the floor of the yard with every single warrior who dared to challenge her. Even a member of my father's Kingsguard was thrown into the mud in a humiliating fashion by the agility and precision of her slashing strikes.
Watching that young she-wolf fight with such ferocity was one of the most fascinating and terrifying scenes I have ever witnessed in my life. In that moment, I realized I was truly my father's son; the attraction I felt for that untamed wildness was instantaneous. I found myself thinking about Arya every hour of the day, desiring more than any crown the right to have her by my side.
And, to my immense happiness, the betrothal was finally formally announced in early 301 AC, despite all my mother's silent protests and gélid glares.
But fate, it seems, has an extremely distorted and cruel sense of humor, which only the gods are capable of understanding.
The political tension in the court was reaching its peak when my father decided to organize one of his great hunts in the Kingswood. He wanted to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the council and prove to himself that he was still the formidable warrior who had shattered Rhaegar Targaryen's chest at the Trident.
I remember perfectly the sunlight filtering through the canopy of the ancient trees, the smell of damp earth, and the sweat of the horses. Robert Baratheon was on his mount, laughing loudly and demanding that his squire bring him more of the strong wine that Catelyn had sent from her own private stocks for the hunting party.
I watched him take the leather skin and drink a long draft. In the same instant, I saw a strange, deep grimace cross his heavy features. He looked at the skin with suspicion, muttering something about the taste of the wine not being right, but his pride and his drunkenness prevented him from stopping. Shortly after, his reflexes failed catastrophically, and he slipped from the saddle, falling heavily onto the damp forest floor.
To make matters worse, the immense wild boar we had been tracking—a monstrous beast with razor-sharp tusks—charged from the bushes with blind fury. The animal charged directly at my father's fallen body.
Time seemed to accelerate at a terrifying speed before my eyes. I saw my father, even fallen and dazed, raise his hunting spear with that characteristic roar that had once made entire armies tremble with dread. He managed to impale the boar cleanly, but the strength and fury of the dying animal were enough to rip Robert's abdomen open, tearing a horrible wound from which Baratheon blood began to gush without control.
I felt my own body act on autopilot. I took command of the situation with a coldness I did not know I possessed, ordering the scouts to assemble an improvised litter, sending riders back to the Red Keep to demand the immediate presence of all the castle's maesters, and trying, without much success, to calm my mother when we returned. Catelyn seemed strangely more focused on ensuring my safety and keeping Tully guards around me than on the physical state of her husband, who had clearly been the victim of a silent conspiracy.
Now, I find myself in the royal chambers, where the strong smell of blood, sour sweat, and the sweet aroma of the milk of the poppy fill the hot air. Ned Stark stands by the bed with a solemn expression, and I remain just behind him, staring at the once-gigantic figure of my father, who now seems so small under the red silk sheets.
Robert Baratheon lets out a groan of pain that gradually turns into a weak, hoarse, and bitter laugh.
"— I... I got him, Ned... —" the King whispers, coughing a little dark blood on the corner of his lips. "— I got him good... That damn wild boar thought he could bring me down easily... But I showed him who the true demon of the Trident is... hahahaha..."
"— Quiet yourself, Robert, —" Ned Stark requests with his usual calm, steady voice, resting his calloused hand on his friend's shoulder to keep the wound from tearing further. "— Save your strength for the maesters."
"— There is no strength that can save me now, Ned... and we both know it, —" my father replies, closing his eyes for a brief moment before reopening them with a startling lucidity.
"— You... you were right, my friend. That damn wine my wife sent me... had something different in it. I tasted the strange flavor in the first draft... And I am the fucking Robert Baratheon, the greatest connoisseur of wines and drinks in all the Seven Kingdoms... No one can fool my palate with cheap poison..."
I cannot contain a short, nervous, and sad laugh at my father's stubbornness and foolishness, even on his deathbed.
The sound of my laugh makes Robert's blue eyes drift from Ned and focus directly on me. He stares at me in silence for a long time, with an intensity I have never seen in all my life. It was the first time, in many years, that my father truly looked at me, seeing the man I was becoming instead of just the symbol of his unhappy marriage.
"— Gendry... my boy... —" he calls with a weak voice, extending a trembling hand toward me. "— Come closer."
I take a few steps forward, kneeling beside the bed and holding his heavy hand.
"— I'm here, father, —" I answer, feeling tears blur my vision inevitably. Receiving a compliment or my father's attention was all I had ever desired during my entire childhood, but now, under the shadow of impending death, that attention brought me no joy, only a deep pain and the weight of a farewell.
"— How two selfish and spiteful shits like me and Catelyn Tully managed to create someone as decent, honorable, and strong as you... only the gods know, —" my father whispers, and I see a sincere glimmer of pride shine in his damp eyes. "— But I am immensely happy... to know that it will be a man like you who carries my name and my legacy on the Iron Throne."
He lets out a groan of excruciating pain and squeezes my hand with the rest of his strength before turning his face back to the Lord Hand.
"— Ned... write this down at once. Write my words before the maesters try to put me under with that cursed milk of the poppy."
Ned Stark takes a parchment and a quill from the side table, preparing to write.
"— Speak, Robert. I am listening."
"— I, Robert Baratheon, King of the... ah, fuck it, Ned, you know all my stupid noble titles perfectly... —" my father dictates with a weak smile. "— Write that I name Eddard of House Stark, my truest friend and the Lord Hand, as the Regent and Protector of the Realm for my legitimate heir, Gendry Baratheon, until my boy has the physical and mental capacity to rule with the justice, honor, and balance that this cursed position demands."
Ned Stark finishes writing the words on the sheet of parchment, his steady hand maintaining his iron posture. He pours the red wax and presses my father's royal seal onto the paper to make the document official.
"— It is done, Robert, —" Ned says solemnly.
My father nods with difficulty, his breathing becoming increasingly weak and shallow as life begins to escape his massive body.
"— Ned... you must be careful... protect my boy from those hungry vipers that crawl through this castle... Promise me, Ned... promise me..."
The Silent Wolf leans over his friend and speaks with an unshakeable firmness that echoes through the room:
"— I promise, Robert. I will protect Gendry with my own life and with the strength of the North. Rest in peace, my brother."
I watch my father's body gradually relax on the pillows, the tension leaving his heavy features until his last breath escapes his lips peacefully. Robert Baratheon was dead.
I bow my head over the red silk covers and close my eyes, making a silent and fervent prayer to the Seven to guide my father's soul beyond the darkness.
Shortly after, the heavy and melancholy sound of the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor begins to echo throughout King's Landing, announcing to the common people that the King of the South had departed.
The news of my father's will and the appointment of Ned Stark as Regent and Protector of the Realm spread through the corridors of the Red Keep like wildfire. My mother's reaction upon reading the document was one of blind and uncontrolled fury in her private chambers.
"— How could he do this to me?! —" Catelyn Tully roared, throwing a silver goblet against the stone wall. "— I am the queen! I should be the legitimate Regent until you reach your majority, Gendry! Handing absolute control of the realm over to that Northern wolf is a humiliation that I will not allow House Tully or the Southern crown to suffer!"
"— Mother, be quiet for a moment, —" I interrupted firmly, keeping my voice calm and commanding as I stared into her eyes. "— Having Lord Stark as my Regent and Protector is the best thing that could have happened in this situation. I need someone to teach me how to truly rule, someone who has the physical strength and the integrity of a true Stark to guide me through this nest of snakes. I trust Ned Stark."
My mother fell silent at the tone of my voice, surprise and displeasure shaping her cold features. She nodded slightly and softened her posture, but I knew her too well to be fooled by that false acceptance. I knew perfectly well that her anger had not passed; Catelyn had merely put her spite aside to act in the shadow of silent conspiracies.
In the days that followed my father's death, the atmosphere in the Red Keep became even denser and more suffocating. I could feel the watchful, heavy, and hungry eyes of every single member of the Small Council directed at me with every step I took through the stone corridors.
The Southern factions were beginning to move secretly in the darkness. Varys and Littlefinger whispered in the corners, Renly Baratheon held silent meetings with his allies from the Reach, and Tully messengers departed toward the Riverlands with sealed orders.
Fortunately, I was not alone in that fortress of snakes. I had Ned Stark by my side, the fifty veteran warriors of the North, and the lethal force of the imperial Black Guard to guarantee my physical protection.
Or at least... that was what I naively thought back then.
As I said before, the universe possesses an extremely strange and cruel sense of humor when it decides to play with the fate of men. And the storm that was about to break over King's Landing would be far worse than anything we had already faced.