While the notorious Gregor Clegane, The Mountain, was busy conscripting and training troops in the fortress city of Casterly Rock in the Westerlands, far to the north in the capital of Winterfell, King Robert Baratheon stood by a bedside, gazing regretfully at the peaceful face of a sleeping child: seven-year-old Brandon Stark.
It had been over a month since Bran fell from the broken tower, and he had yet to wake.
The king wore a cloak made from the pelt of a black bear he had hunted and killed himself. A longsword hung from his belt. Tall and once fiercely charismatic, Robert had earned fame sixteen years ago at the Battle of the Trident, where he slew Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. That decisive blow shattered the main loyalist army and sealed victory in the war now known as Robert's Rebellion.
It was Rhaegar Targaryen himself who had knighted Gregor Clegane, back when Robert was only sixteen. Lord Tywin Lannister had personally requested that honor for The Mountain, seeking to glorify his brutal retainer.
The higher the status of the one bestowing a knighthood, the greater the prestige.
Born in 262 AC, King Robert was now thirty-six years old, in what should have been the prime of his life. At twenty, when he claimed the Iron Throne, he had been a striking figure, handsome and powerfully built. His weapon of choice was a pair of massive warhammers, so heavy that even seasoned generals struggled to lift them, let alone wield them in battle.
At that time, Robert was the dream of every young maiden across the Seven Kingdoms.
But after claiming the crown, Robert fell into a life of indulgence, feasting, drinking, and carousing. Sixteen years of excess had added nearly eight stone to his once-chiseled frame. The mighty warhammers he used to wield now sat as ceremonial relics in the Red Keep's throne hall, symbols of a past he could no longer reclaim.
Though his thick, black beard masked his double chin, no amount of rich garments could hide his bulging belly and round figure. The calluses on his hands had long faded, replaced by soft, pudgy flesh. He drank constantly, slept with countless women, fathered numerous bastards, and then forgot about them entirely.
The hero who had won a kingdom had become a bloated, drunken shadow of his former self.
Standing beside him was Queen Cersei Lannister, her expression filled with false concern. She was undeniably beautiful, with golden curls and bright green eyes, a classic Lannister. Though she had borne three children, her figure remained slim and her skin pale and flawless.
Behind her stood Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, her twin brother. The two shared identical features, though their temperaments differed. Cersei exudes elegance; Jaime, a dashing confidence. As children, they once swapped clothes and fooled even their father, Lord Tywin Lannister.
Cersei had always idolized her father. Sixteen years ago, before she was given to Robert in marriage, she had fallen hopelessly in love with Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. That infatuation had lingered ever since. Though she briefly loved Robert when they first wed, that affection died on their wedding night, when he cried out another woman's name: Lyanna Stark.
From that night on, Cersei harbored nothing but hatred for her husband. Rhaegar's image lived on in her heart, and with it, an ever-growing resentment toward Robert Baratheon.
Lyanna Stark, sister to Eddard Stark, had been Robert's betrothed before she secretly married Rhaegar. At a tourney, Rhaegar bypassed his own wife, Princess Elia Martell, and crowned Lyanna with the wreath meant for the queen of love and beauty. His bold gesture stunned the nobility and deeply shamed House Stark.
It was for Lyanna that Rhaegar defied the realm and set fire to the tinderbox of war.
In the end, Rhaegar and Lyanna vanished together, triggering a civil war. Rhaegar died, but he won Lyanna's love. Robert won the war and the Iron Throne, but he lost the woman he loved. The gods gave him a crown, yet took everything else from him.
On Robert's other side stood his son, Prince Joffrey Baratheon.
Born in 286 AC, Joffrey was twelve years old. As Robert's named heir, he was next in line for the throne. He had all the hallmarks of House Lannister, tall, with golden curls, green eyes, and a handsome, pale face. But he was arrogant, with a perpetual sneer on his lips.
As he looked at the unconscious Bran Stark, a smile flickered across his face, poorly hidden and utterly inappropriate, but entirely in character for the prince. He had recently arrived in Winterfell and was immediately captivated by Sansa Stark's beauty. His courtship had been intense, and Sansa, flattered by his attention, had quickly fallen for him.
Sansa Stark was a classic beauty. From her mother she inherited the Tully family's high cheekbones, clear blue eyes, and thick auburn hair. Though only eleven, her graceful figure already hinted at her future radiance. Joffrey won her heart with a simple gift: a lemon cake, her favorite.
King Robert had come to visit Bran Stark with his queen and son because he would depart Winterfell the next day, heading back south to King's Landing and the Red Keep. This visit was part of the formal farewell rituals.
Joining him would be Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, who had been named Hand of the King, the monarch's chief advisor and the second most powerful man in the realm.
The Hand governed the kingdom's affairs: commanding armies, drafting laws, settling disputes, managing the realm when the king was absent, and even sitting on the Iron Throne in the king's place when needed.
After the formalities were completed, Robert returned to his quarters, exhausted. His cupbearer, Lancel Lannister, quickly approached with a golden flagon and poured the king a full cup of wine.
Robert downed it in a single gulp, visibly rejuvenated. Tossing the cup back to Lancel, he muttered bitterly, "To see that boy lying there, breathing but empty, would have been kinder if he'd just died in the fall. I'd rather be dead than live like that."
Joffrey's eyes lit up. "Father, why don't you order Bran's death? As king, you could end his suffering."
Robert's eyes widened in anger. "Joffrey! If the Starks heard you say that, they'd never forgive you. Couldn't you see Lady Catelyn's face? That grief! She hasn't left the boy's side since the fall… but what good does it do? The old gods of the North, so cruel to this child!"
Queen Cersei scoffed, her head held high, eyes full of contempt. "Cruelty? Who could rival Gregor Clegane in that regard? He butchered Rhaegar's wife, raped her, and smashed the prince's infant son against a wall. My noble king, how can your righteous heart abide such a monster in your service? Or perhaps you're the greater monster, just as heartless."
Robert, stung by her words, roared for more wine. When Lancel refilled his cup, the king raised it to throw at the queen, but Cersei and Joffrey had already swept from the room.
Left alone, Robert drank cup after cup, cursing the Lannisters, Cersei, Tywin, all of them, until he collapsed in a drunken stupor. Before passing out, he swore to Lancel that his first order upon returning to the capital would be to have Gregor Clegane executed.
Lancel Lannister dutifully nodded, though he was too weak to lift the king's heavy body. He simply covered him with a blanket.
Lancel, the eldest son of Ser Kevan Lannister of the Westerlands, was sixteen, young, handsome, with sandy brown hair and soft green eyes, bearing a faint resemblance to Jaime. When Jaime was away and the king lay drunk in a whore's bed, Queen Cersei would invite Lancel into her chambers to keep her company, drinking wine and whispering scandalous tales through sleepless nights.
The next morning, the royal procession departed Winterfell in grand fashion, heading south for King's Landing. The king snored in his palanquin, while the queen stood in the doorway, watching the endless parade of nobles and guards. The red-cloaked forces of the West formed their own escort at the rear.
At a fork in the road, Lord Eddard Stark paused. Two riders approached swiftly behind him, his brother, Benjen Stark, First Ranger of the Night's Watch, and a young man named Jon Snow.
Jon, Eddard's bastard son, was born in 283 AC and was now fifteen. Today, he would leave Winterfell and ride to the Wall to join the Night's Watch.
Jon had chased after his father with a single pressing question: Who was his mother?
Father and son were about to part, one going north, the other south. Who knew when they might meet again? The mystery had haunted Jon for years, and today, he hoped for an answer.
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