Robert's boar hunt had barely gotten underway when it fell into disarray. The party of more than a hundred riders had just happily ridden out the Hunter's Gate, not even an hour past, when they were overtaken by a group of horsemen galloping from behind—sent from Winterfell.
It was like the weather at Shipbreaker Bay: clear skies one moment, dark clouds and heavy rain the next.
And now, inside the Great Keep of Winterfell, the atmosphere was like that of a lone sailboat drifting on the sea before the storm—eerily calm.
King Robert sat stiffly on the ancient throne reserved for the Kings in the North, his expression like a stagnant pool. His unreadable gaze was fixed firmly on the two corpses laid out in the great hall below, while the voice of Kal Stone—recounting what had happened—drifted past his ears.
And once Kal finished his account, a deathly silence fell over the hall, like the crypts that housed the departed Lords of House Stark.
Not many people were permitted in that room at the time.
Aside from the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Robert Baratheon, there was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and his wife Catelyn Tully.
Also present were Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, and his son, Jory Cassel, captain of Stark's guards.
Robb Stark was there too, watching the scene unfold with a look of deep shock.
Maester Luwin, silent and brooding, stared at the corpses in thought.
Benjen Stark stood with furrowed brows and a grim look on his face.
Theon Greyjoy's eyes gleamed with an unreadable light.
Standing near the center of the hall were Kal—the man at the heart of the tale—Jon Snow at his side, and young Bran Stark, wrapped tightly in his mother's arms.
And finally, the only Lannister in the room: Tyrion, the Imp, who had been summoned here especially.
In short, aside from King Robert, the only ones present were members of House Stark.
Tyrion's presence, as a Lannister, was peculiar; his role in this gathering was that of a suspect—a dwarf whose motives were under question.
These were the ones who made up this hastily assembled council-court.
And after Kal had finished his complete and detailed account, silence clung to the chamber for a long while.
No one dared speak. All eyes were cast down toward the two bodies lying on the stretchers, each person lost in their own thoughts.
Tyrion, who had initially gone hunting in good spirits with the king, had turned back the moment he received word of some unexpected incident. Only when he arrived did he learn the truth—that both his brother and sister were dead.
The poor, summoned dwarf was now completely overcome by tears.
And yet, no sound came from him. His eyes were vacant, staring at the lifeless bodies of his kin lying cold before him.
That strange silence stretched on for gods knew how long.
Until, at last, King Robert slowly lifted his head. His eyes blazed with fury as he glared at Kal. Then, through clenched teeth, in a voice heavy with rage and loathing, he repeated Kal's account: "So you're saying… you realized Bran was in danger, went to find him—and saw Jaime Lannister push him from the tower with your own eyes—"
"And the reason he did it… was because he discovered their incestuous affair."
"Yes, Your Grace," Kal said with a respectful nod.
"If you have any doubts, you may order an investigation—"
"Moreover, the deaths of Jaime Lannister and the queen were witnessed by many of Winterfell's guards."
In the face of the king's questioning, Kal answered with calm composure—neither humble nor arrogant. His tone was neutral, unshaken, and again affirmed he had not lied.
However, at this point, his gaze briefly shifted—to Tyrion, who lay slumped over his brother's corpse, tears nearly dried from grief.
And indeed, Kal had not lied. The events had happened just as he described. What's more, he'd never intended to kill Jaime in the first place.
All he needed to do was expose the truth behind their disgrace, then lay it bare before the king.
The fate of the Lannister twins after that was no longer his concern. He didn't care whether they lived or died.
After all, that was Robert's burden to carry.
Why should he invite trouble upon himself for no gain?
Yet what Kal hadn't expected—what truly caught him off guard—was how decisively Jaime chose to act when the situation had become irrevocable.
He tricked Cersei into handing him a sword, then used it to sever his own right arm, which had been pinned to the wall.
Then, while embracing Cersei, he used his remaining left arm to strangle her—breaking her neck with brute force—and killed the woman he loved with his own hand.
Moments later, in full view of the Stark guards who had just arrived, Jaime calmly picked up his longsword, rested it against his shoulder, and, without hesitation, slit his own throat.
Kal still remembered the sight of blood spraying from Jaime's neck in the ruined tower. The gold-plated longsword clattered to the ground with a sharp metallic ring, kicking up a light puff of dust—then fell still.
Jaime collapsed beside it.
And then, using the last of his strength, he crawled forward, kissed his lover one final time, and died in her arms.
Warm blood had stained the cold edge of that gilded sword, slowly turning dark and congealed.
After that, a squad was dispatched at once to catch up with the king's hunting party.
Meanwhile, the remaining Winterfell guards, under Kal's warning and the swift orders of the Lady of the castle, moved immediately to detain anyone in the keep who had ties to House Lannister.
Only the confused royal retainers, left behind by Robert, stood there watching the chaos unfold in helpless bewilderment.
But just as Kal finished his account, the previously composed Robert suddenly reacted—as if everything had only now sunk in. He shot to his feet and glared at Kal, eyes wide with fury.
His thick fingers pointed accusingly, trembling with rage, and he roared like thunder: "Believe?!"
"Damn you, Kal—what am I supposed to believe?!"
"I was gone for what, a little while—and in that time, you turn around and kill two Lannisters?!"
"I never intended to kill them—" Kal furrowed his brow and murmured a soft rebuttal under Robert's blazing wrath.
Seeing the bastard still daring to talk back only enraged Robert further—his already thunderous voice rose to an even greater pitch.
"So what, now I'm supposed to thank you?!"
Faced with the king's murderous fury, Kal wisely shut his mouth.
With Kal now silent, Robert could only stand there, fuming, breath coming in hot, ragged bursts.
Though furious, the deaths involved only two Lannisters—so he hadn't completely lost his wits.
In fact, what truly infuriated him wasn't even the deaths themselves—despite one of them being his own queen.
But what was done was done. Sudden, yes. Unexpected, yes. But irreversible.
The two brightest stars of House Lannister had died right before his eyes.
There was still one left… but looking at that sniveling dwarf sobbing over the corpses, Robert almost wished he'd died too. Might even spare him the trouble of facing Tywin. The old lion might thank him for it.
And yet, even as the king stared at Tyrion, a man he'd never given much thought to, he felt nothing now but a dull, aching anger.
In that moment, Robert's head throbbed with rage.
So he turned his wrath toward another target—the Lord of House Stark, whose face was just as grim as his own.
"Ned," he barked, "tell me now—tell me someone is lying to me!"
"Then I'll have a reason to strip that damned knight of his title, throw a black cloak on him, and send the bastard to the Wall!"
Seeing that Robert still couldn't come to terms with what had happened…
And despite feeling a similar fire burning in his own chest, Eddard Stark held his silence for a time—before finally speaking, cold-faced, suppressing his own rising fury.
"Your Grace… we both know Kal isn't lying."
"Catelyn told me many people saw Jon taking Kal Stone on a walk around Winterfell—"
"And that severed arm," he added, pointing toward the object that had been brought into the hall. "That alone should say everything."
As he spoke, he gestured toward the dismembered arm lying nearby, its sleeve deliberately rolled up. His voice, though level, carried a weight that all present could feel.
And as he pointed, every gaze in the room instinctively followed.
On the arm, just below the wrist, was a deep gash—but what drew everyone's attention were the unmistakable marks: two dark red claw-shaped gouges, small but prominent, made by child-sized nails.
Everyone present now understood what Lord Stark was saying.
When Robert heard these words—when he realized even his closest friend wouldn't lie to ease his pain—he slumped back into the throne, the one that had once belonged to Eddard Stark himself.
Of course, he understood what Ned was saying.
He might be lazy, but that didn't make him stupid.
Even if they ignored everything else, the fact that Jaime Lannister had tried to murder his son—his son—was something that could never be brushed aside.
And the reason for that murder attempt… was a humiliation carved into the king's face for all to see.
The only reason Lord Stark hadn't exploded with fury, the way he himself had, was because the culprits—Jaime and Cersei—were already dead.
Otherwise, at this very moment, he'd probably be deciding whether to have the Kingslayer's head lopped off on the spot… or grant his dearest friend the honor of avenging his son personally.
But now that the final veil had been so cruelly torn away, King Robert could only slump back onto the throne, spitting curses thick with bitterness.
"Seven hells—what in the blazes do you expect me to do now?!"
"You drag in two corpses—one of them my queen, the other her damn brother!"
"And then you tell me… they were screwing behind my back?! Behind the king's back?!"
Faced with his outburst, no one said a word. The king's tirade echoed in the chamber, the only sound in a silence heavy with dread—like the calm before a storm.
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