Chapter 5 — "The Winter of the Victors"
Year 283 AD
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The Winter of the Victors
The war was over, but the smell of death still permeated the air.
The fields that once bore wheat and barley were now covered in ash and bones. Entire villages had been razed, their men dead, their women raped, their children sold or abandoned to their fate. The roar of dragons had not been heard for almost two centuries, but the fire continued to devour Westeros, only this time it was men against men, without beasts or sorcery.
The Targaryens had fallen. The mad king, Aerys II, burned beneath the flames he so adored. Rhaegar, the prince who enchanted bards and stirred hatred, lay dead on the Trident, his chest pierced by the hammer of a man who had never sought the crown. Robert's Rebellion would be sung in taverns and castles, but the songs would not tell of the stench of rotting flesh or the ravens that darkened the sky.
The victors had returned to their homes, but their souls remained trapped on the battlefield. The defeated wandered like ghosts. And at the center of it all, the Iron Throne waited, cold and silent, while new players moved in the shadows.
Because the war could be over…
But the game was just beginning.POV: Robert Baratheon — The Broken King
King's Landing
Year 283 AC
The throne room smelled of iron and wine.
Robert Baratheon sat on the Iron Throne, but he did not look like a king. The warhammer with which he had killed Rhaegar lay to one side, abandoned like an empty trophy. In his other hand, he held a goblet of wine, his fourth of the morning. The roar that once made men tremble was now barely a growl through gritted teeth.
He had won the war. He had slain the dragons. He had claimed the crown.
And yet, Robert Baratheon felt more dead than the enemies he left on the field.
"More wine," he ordered, without looking at the cupbearer.
The boy, barely a squire, hesitated. Stannis had warned him to monitor his brother's consumption. But Robert glared at him, and the boy ran to refill the glass.
"If Lyanna were here..."
The thought hit him like a hammer to the chest. Lyanna Stark. Her laughter still echoed in his dreams, her face appearing every time he closed his eyes. Robert had won the kingdom, but he had lost the woman he loved. And it ate at him.
Cersei Lannister strode gracefully into the hall, flanked by two handmaidens. She looked splendid in an emerald green gown, the color of the Tyrells she so detested. Robert barely looked up.
"My king," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "The Lannisters have sent a shipload of wine from the Westerlands. It's a gift to celebrate your coronation."
"More wine. Perfect. Just what I need," Robert snorted, taking a long drink. "If your father wanted to please me, he would have sent gold, not alcohol."
Cersei's smile froze.
"My father gave you his daughter," she replied, her voice as cold as steel.
Robert slammed the goblet against the arm of the throne.
"I didn't ask for your father or his daughter!" he roared. The echoes reverberated through the room. "I asked for Lyanna."
A heavy silence fell between them. Jaime Lannister, standing behind the throne as a member of the Kingsguard, clenched his jaw. The young Kingslayer knew Robert didn't love his sister, but hearing his name replaced with another in front of the court was an unbearable humiliation.
"Then you should toast the dead, Robert," Cersei whispered with venom in her voice, "for the living no longer interest you."
Robert laughed, a hollow, bitter laugh.
"That's what I do every damn night, woman. I drink to the dead. Because at least they don't have to live anymore."
Cersei turned and left, stiff as a lance. Jaime watched her, but didn't move a step. Robert drank until the wine was gone.
The echo of Lyanna's laughter haunted him.
---
The sun beat down on King's Landing, but Robert felt cold. Always cold.
Perhaps it was the cursed throne, he thought. That nest of blades and edges. Every time he sat on it, he felt as if he were bleeding inside.
"Kings shouldn't bleed," his mind told him.
But he was bleeding. Inside. For Lyanna.
The echo of the war still haunted him. He remembered the Trident as if he were living it again: the roar of horns, the clash of swords, the metallic smell of blood. And Rhaegar… the cursed silver prince. Robert could still feel the crunch of his bones as his hammer shattered his chest.
"It was him. It was all because of him."
"Robert…" Jon Arryn's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
The old lord of the Eyrie strode slowly into the chamber, accompanied by two scribes laden with scrolls. His face was tired and lined.
"We need to discuss the crown's taxes," he said, bluntly as always. "The war has left the coffers empty, and the Lannisters expect us to pay their debts."
Robert grunted and poured himself more wine.
"Let Tywin dig his debts where the sun doesn't shine. If he wanted gold, he should fight at the damned Trident."
Jon sighed.
"He did it his way. He delivered King's Landing on time."
Robert gave a bitter laugh.
"He arrived when everything was done. Like a vulture. And now I have to bed his daughter as a prize. A prize, he says!"
"Cersei is beautiful," Jon replied cautiously.
Robert glared at him.
"I don't want soulless beauty, Jon! I wanted Lyanna. And they gave me a Lannister."
Silence filled the room. The scribes lowered their eyes. Jon Arryn stepped forward and placed a hand on Robert's shoulder.
"The war is over, boy. Now it's time to rule."
"I didn't ask to rule!" Robert roared, bolting upright. "I wanted Lyanna. I wanted to kill Rhaegar. And I did that. The rest... the rest is a cage."
He took another swallow. The wine burned his throat, but not as much as the pain.
A Poisoned Marriage
That night, Robert returned to his chambers. Cersei was waiting for him, sitting in front of the mirror, combing her golden hair. The reflection of her green eyes looked at him without emotion.
"You've drunk again," she said without turning around.
"So what?" Robert retorted, sinking into a chair.
"You appear before the court smelling of wine. The Lannisters judge you, the Tyrells murmur, and even the Tyroshi speak of you in their taverns."
Robert slammed the table hard.
"Let them speak! I do not fear them. I am the man who slew the dragons."
"You are the man who lost his love and now drowns in wine," she retorted, turning around with a flash of fury in her eyes.
There was a heavy silence. Robert looked at her, and for a moment, in that perfect face, he thought he saw the shadow of Lyanna. But it was only a mirage.
"You're not her," he whispered hoarsely. "You'll never be her."
Cersei stood, proud as a queen even in private.
"And you'll never be the man I deserve."
That night, Robert drank himself senseless. Cersei slept alone.War Council
Days later, Stannis Baratheon arrived in King's Landing. The air grew heavier, more tense. The second Baratheon strode into the throne room as if the iron were his.
"The kingdom is bleeding," Stannis said bluntly. "The Tyrells still have troops at the Mander, the Greyjoys are pillaging the coast, and Tywin... Tywin is behaving as if he were Hand of the King."
Robert looked at him with tired eyes.
"Let them do it. I am king now. Let everyone kneel or let me drink in peace."
Stannis gritted his teeth.
"Is that your plan? To drink while Westeros burns?"
Robert sat up, the warhammer still hanging at his side. For an instant, the warrior's roar returned.
"I burned Westeros to save it. If they want to burn, let them burn."
Stannis swallowed, but didn't relent.
"You're my brother, Robert. But you're acting like a child."
"And you're like a walking sermon." Robert turned his back on him and raised his glass. "Give me my wine."
---
Memories of the Trident
That night, alone in his chambers, Robert dreamed again.
The Trident.
The blood.
The sound of water crashing against stones.
Rhaegar's scream as the hammer crushed him.
And then, Lyanna. Always Lyanna. Her dark hair tangled in blue flowers. Her voice like a whisper on the wind.
"Promise me, Robert."
He woke drenched in sweat. The wineglass was empty. Dawn filtered through the stone windows. Robert Baratheon, the conqueror, the dragon slayer, felt... small.
---
At dawn, Robert walked across the throne room balcony. The city was alive, bustling, but the walls still bore the scars of war. He saw beggars pleading for bread, crippled soldiers begging for alms, prostitutes waiting for clients even before the sun had risen.
"This is what I conquered," he thought bitterly.
A broken kingdom. An uncomfortable throne. An empty life.
He raised the glass to his lips. The wine no longer tasted of anything.
---
POV: Eddard Stark — The Blood Promise
Dornish Marches
Year 283 AC
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The Dornish sun beat down like a hot sword.
Ned Stark had never felt such unbearable heat. Sweat ran down his forehead and back, soaking his mail, but he didn't let go of the hilt of his sword. His hand was steady. His breath held. His heart was a drumbeat in his chest.
Before him rose the Tower of Joy.
White, silent, solitary. An ironic name for a place he knew was stained with tears and death.
Beside him stood Howland Reed, Lord William Dustin, Ser Mark Ryswell, Ethan Glover, Theo Wull, and Martyn Cassel. Loyal men, men who had followed him to the ends of the earth. Men who, in a matter of minutes, would die. Ned sensed it, though he couldn't tell him.
At the foot of the tower, three figures waited. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, his blade forged from a star that fell "Dawn," gleaming in the sun. Ser Oswell Whent, dark and somber like his house sigil. And Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Three against seven.
Ned knew there was no victory without sacrifice.
---
The Confrontation
"Where is my sister?" Ned asked, his voice deep and restrained.
Arthur Dayne took a step forward. Dawn's reflection illuminated his face, giving him an almost unreal air, as if he were a hero from another age.
"She's inside," he replied serenely. "We kept our oath."
"King Aerys is dead. Rhaegar too. There's nothing left to fight for."
Gerold Hightower, towering as a mountain, shook his head.
"We swore to protect the royal family. As long as a dragon lives, our duty is not done."
Ned clenched his jaw.
"My sister is not a dragon."
Arthur Dayne looked at him, and for the first time, Ned saw compassion in his eyes.
"Sometimes, Lord Stark, duty outweighs love."
The hot wind whipped dust between them. Ned's men tensed their swords. The Kingsguard did the same.
It was then that Arthur Dayne spoke the words Ned would never forget:
"And now the real dance begins."
Blood spilled.
---
The Battle
It all happened in seconds.
Howland Reed launched himself at Oswell Whent, while Mark Ryswell and Ethan Glover attacked Gerold Hightower together. Ned faced Arthur Dayne directly.
The clashes of steel resounded like war bells.
It was Arthur… impossible. His movements were graceful, fluid, lethal. Ned could barely keep up. Every slash from Dawn was a flash of lightning, every thrust, a death knell.
Mark fell first, pierced by the White Bull's sword. Theo Wull lost an arm before his throat was slashed open. The battlefield turned red, and the sun seemed hotter than ever.
Ned gasped, sweat and blood mixing on his face. Howland was wounded, Ethan was bleeding from his leg, and William Dustin roared like a wolf, covered in enemy blood and his own.
Then it happened.
Arthur disarmed Ned. Dawn was aiming straight for his chest. The world stopped.
But Howland Reed, small and swift, darted from behind, plunging his dagger under the knight's armpit. Arthur fell to his knees in surprise, and Ned, with tears in his eyes, finished him off.
He would never forget Arthur Dayne's expression. It wasn't fear. It was... peace.
---
The Tower
Ned took the stairs two at a time, the bloody sword still in his hand.
The air was thick with a metallic smell, a mixture of iron and withered flowers. And there, in the highest room, he found her.
Lyanna Stark.
Pale, sweaty, her lips dry. Bloodstains on the sheets.
Ned's heart stopped.
"Ned..." he whispered, his voice barely a wisp of wind.
He ran to her, taking her hand.
"I'm here, Lya. I'm here."
She smiled weakly.
"I told you... you shouldn't have come."
Ned's eyes filled with tears. He tried to speak, but Lyanna raised a trembling hand.
"Promise me, Ned."
"Lya, no..."
"Promise me."
That's when he saw it.
A baby. Small, fragile, wrapped in a blanket. His skin was pale, his hair dark, his eyes closed.
"Rhaegar's son..." Ned whispered.
"No... my son," Lyanna corrected, her voice faint. "His name is Aegon. But no one must know. Robert would kill him... promise me, Ned."
His voice breaking.
Lyanna smiled. Her fingers clung to his for a moment, then relaxed forever.
The wind blew from the hills, carrying with it the scent of blue flowers.
Ned closed his eyes. And wept.
---
The Journey to Winterfell
Days later, Ned set out for the North. On his way, he passed through King's Landing. Robert welcomed him with open arms, drunk and jubilant.
"Brother!" roared Robert, hugging him tightly. "The dragon is dead. We now rule the world."
Ned said nothing. He just looked at him, and saw a man who could never know the truth. If Robert discovered who the boy was, he would kill him without flinching.
"What's wrong, Ned?" asked Robert, noticing his silence.
"The war is over," Ned replied, his voice grave. "But some wounds never heal."
Robert laughed, raising his glass.
"Then we'll drink until we forget."
Ned looked down at the baby in his arms.
"Forgetting" wasn't an option.