The throne room of the Red Keep still smelled of smoke and blood. The fires had been put out days ago, but the scent lingered in the air, clinging to stone and iron. Broken glass lay scattered along the floor, catching the dull morning light that filtered through the shattered windows. The Iron Throne stood at the far end, jagged and black, a reminder that peace had not yet settled over the realm.
Robert Baratheon stood before it; his leg was wrapped in thick white bandages, still bloodstained from the Battle of the Trident. His knuckles were scarred, his jaw bruised. He looked more like a soldier resting after a long campaign than a man about to take a crown. His good hand clutched a goblet of wine, and though his face was hard, the weight in his eyes betrayed how tired he truly was.
Beside him stood Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn. Both were silent, their faces drawn. The sound of marching echoed faintly from outside the hall, soldiers moving through the ruined streets, sweeping what remained of loyalists and thieves alike. Every so often, the wind carried the smell of ash through the broken windows.
Robert shifted slightly, a grimace crossing his face as the pain in his leg flared. "They'll sing about the Trident for a hundred years," he muttered, voice hoarse.
Jon Arryn gave a faint nod. "Songs fade. Peace lasts longer."
Robert almost smiled, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "If peace comes at all."
Before anyone could answer, the heavy doors creaked open. The sound of armoured boots filled the room as Lord Tywin Lannister entered. He moved with slow, deliberate steps, each one echoing off the stone walls. Behind him came his brother Kevan, stern and quiet; Ser Damon Marbrand, watchful as ever; and two giants of men, Ser Gregor Clegane, whose size filled the hall, and Ser Jaime Lannister, still in his white armour, his face unreadable.
The Lannisters stopped before the Iron Throne. The light from the high windows caught the gold of their armour, flashing bright against the soot-stained walls. Two soldiers followed, carrying something between them, two shapes, small and still, wrapped in rich crimson cloaks embroidered with golden lions. The cloaks were clean, but the smell of iron drifted with them, heavy and sharp.
Tywin bowed his head, his voice calm and practised. "Your Grace," he said, though Robert wore no crown yet. "House Lannister comes before you as loyal servants of the realm. The city is yours, as it should be."
Robert watched, saying nothing.
Tywin's gaze shifted to the two cloaked bundles lying gently before the dais. "The last of House Targaryen's line found refuge in the city. I took it upon myself to end their claim." He gestured slightly, and one of the soldiers stepped back. The corner of a cloak slipped, revealing a small pale hand, fingers curled and still. "A gift of loyalty, my king."
The hall went silent.
Robert's eyes hardened as he stared down at what lay before him. He leaned forward slightly, his jaw tightening, his voice quiet but steady. "Rhaegar's line is ended, then."
Tywin inclined his head. "It is, Your Grace. The realm is safe from dragonfire."
Robert's hand clenched around the goblet. "Good," he said. "Let it be known the Targaryens are no more."
Eddard's voice cut through the stillness, sharp as steel. "No more?" He took a step forward, his expression dark with disgust. "They were children."
Tywin's eyes flicked toward him but said nothing. Robert looked up, brow furrowing.
"They were babes, Robert," Eddard continued, his tone rising slightly, though his voice trembled with contained anger. "The prince and princess were no more than babes."
Robert's expression twisted, his patience thinning. "The Mad King was no babe when he killed your brother and father. Rhaegar was no babe when he took my betrothed, your sister," he growled.
Eddard's voice didn't waver. "And so the babes must pay for their grandfathers and fathers' sins? Is that justice?"
Robert threw his goblet down, and wine splashed across the floor, dark as blood. "I see no babes," he snapped. "Only dragonspawn."
The words hung in the air.
Eddard took another step forward, his voice low but cold. "You speak of justice, Robert. I see only murder."
Robert glared back at him, anger and exhaustion burning together in his eyes. For a long moment, neither man spoke.
Jon Arryn broke the silence, his tone careful. "We've won the war. The realm needs healing, not more blood."
The silence lingered.
Robert's fingers drummed against the handle of his warhammer twice before he finally spoke, voice low and tired. "I will not mourn dragonspawn, Ned. You shouldn't either."
Eddard didn't answer.
The two cloaked bodies lay still beneath the gold and crimson, and no one dared speak again.
The throne room stayed silent after Robert's last words. The torches hissed softly in their brackets, the smell of iron and smoke heavy in the air. Eddard hadn't moved. He stood where he had been, eyes still fixed on Robert.
Jon Arryn shifted slightly beside him, looking between the two men. "Please," he said quietly, "enough for one day."
Robert didn't look at him. "You think me heartless, Ned? Is that it?" His voice was rough and tired, but growing harder.
"I think you've forgotten what heart is," Eddard said.
The words hit the air like a blow. Tywin's gaze flicked between them, cold and unreadable. Kevan and Marbrand stayed silent. Jaime's face didn't change. The Mountain's breathing was the only sound that filled the empty spaces.
Robert stepped forward, his leg protesting, and yet he limped a little as he moved toward Eddard. "You dare say that to me," he said, his voice low. "After everything I've done. After the blood I've spilt to put us here."
"You've spilt enough," Eddard said. "And now you praise the killing of children."
"They were not children," Robert snapped. "They were Targaryens. Rhaegar's get. His blood."
"They were his children!" Eddard's voice rose now, sharp and cutting. "Not soldiers. Not killers. They were innocent."
Robert's jaw worked as if he were biting back words. He took another step closer, his breath heavy, the smell of wine clinging to him. "They took Lyanna from me! Does your blood not burn with a desire for revenge against those who killed your brother and father? For kidnapping your sister? Do you not want revenge?"
Eddard's voice softened for only a moment. "I do. But vengeance does not make you whole again. It only leaves more graves."
Robert laughed once, bitter and hoarse. "Graves are all this war ever gave me. At least these make it worth something."
Jon Arryn stepped forward, lifting a hand. "Enough, both of you. You're speaking as if you were still on the field. It's done. The fighting is done."
Robert ignored him. His face had gone red with anger. He pointed at Eddard, voice rising. "You think you're better than me, is that it? You sit there judging me from your cold northern tower. Always the honour, always the duty. You think that keeps you clean?"
"I think it's what keeps men from becoming monsters," Eddard said quietly.
Robert's hand trembled. "You call me a monster?"
"I call this murder. And if you cannot see that, then maybe you've already become one."
The words struck something deep in Robert. He moved suddenly, the limp forgotten, rage taking hold. He closed the distance between them in three heavy steps. Jon tried to step between them, but Robert shoved him aside with his good arm.
"Don't you dare," Robert growled. "Don't you dare stand there and tell me what I am."
Eddard didn't move. His eyes didn't flinch away. "Then look at them," he said, motioning to the cloaked bodies. "Look at what you've become."
Robert's breath came quick and ragged. He shook his head, muttering, "You don't understand. You never did."
"Then make me," Eddard said. "Tell me how this—" his hand pointed toward the small, still forms— "brings her back. Tell me how this makes it right."
Robert's face twisted. His hand was gripping the warhammer in his hands. He didn't seem to notice he'd done it. His knuckles went white around the handle.
Jon's voice cracked through the hall. "Robert—don't."
But the words didn't reach him.
Robert's shoulders heaved as he lifted the hammer, his breath harsh, his injured leg shaking. He stared at Eddard, eyes wide and burning. "You think you know what right is?" he shouted. "You know nothing! Nothing!"
Eddard took a step forward. "Then show me!"
Robert roared.
The hammer swung.
The sound filled the hall, a deep, sickening crack that echoed off the walls. Eddard's body staggered back, the breath driven from him. He fell to one knee, blood darkening his tunic where the blow had landed. The hammer had crushed part of his shoulder and chest, the impact breaking through armour and bone alike.
Jon cried out, running to him, catching him before he could collapse. "Ned!"
Eddard's lips parted, trying to speak, but no words came. His hand found Jon's arm, weak and trembling.
Robert stood frozen, the hammer still raised, his eyes wide. The air was heavy and still. No one moved. Eddard gasped once, twice. Blood welled at his lips. His hand slipped from Jon's sleeve, falling limp to the ground. He didn't move. He didn't speak. The only sound left was the slow, uneven breaths of the dying man and the faint crackle of the torches above them.
No one dared to break the silence.
The warhammer hit the floor with a sound that echoed through the throne room, deep and final. The metal rang once, then rolled slightly before coming to rest in a pool of blood. Robert stared at it for a long moment, then his knees gave way beneath him. He fell hard against the stone, breath shuddering from his chest. His hands shook as he braced them against the floor, his fingers sliding through the blood that spread from where Eddard lay.
Jon Arryn's voice broke through the silence, raw with disbelief. "Robert! What have you done?"
Robert didn't look up. His eyes were locked on Eddard's face. The light from the torches flickered across pale skin and unmoving eyes. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound came out.
Jon stepped forward, fury taking hold of his voice. "Answer me!" he shouted. "You've struck down your friend, your brother in all but name!" He dropped to one knee beside Eddard, pressing a hand against the wound, though he knew it was useless. Blood welled around his fingers. "Gods," he whispered. "He's gone."
Robert's breathing grew uneven. His shoulders rose and fell with each ragged breath. His face was blank, eyes wide, as though the world around him had stopped making sense.
"Robert!" Jon said again, louder now, but the name barely reached him.
The room was still for a heartbeat. Then Tywin's voice broke the silence, smooth and steady, untouched by grief. "We must act quickly."
Jon's head snapped up. "Act?" he repeated. "You speak of acting when a man has just been murdered?"
Tywin's expression didn't change. "The northern and river lords are camped beyond the city walls," he said evenly. "When they learn of this, the alliance will not hold. They'll march before the sun rises."
Jon stood, his eyes blazing. "And you'd what? Have them believe we slaughtered one another in the throne room? You think to hide this?"
"I think to keep the realm from tearing itself apart before it's begun," Tywin replied. His tone was cold but not unkind, as though he were explaining something simple to a child. "They'll demand blood for Lord Stark. And if they do, all we've gained here will vanish in another war. The Stormlands, the Vale, and the Riverlands will not fight the North. Not again."
Robert didn't move. His head hung low, his eyes still fixed on the man he'd killed. His hands trembled.
Jon turned fully toward Tywin now. "And what would you have us do?" His voice was sharp with disbelief. "Pretend this never happened? Lock away every man with a northern banner?"
Tywin clasped his hands behind his back. "Not lock away," he said calmly. "Hold. Until tempers cool. Until our king can speak with a clear mind. It would be temporary. Necessary."
Jon stared at him, speechless for a moment. "You'd have us arrest our own allies? You'd imprison the very men who won this war?"
"I'd preserve the peace they fought for," Tywin said. "The realm stands on the edge of chaos, Lord Arryn. One spark, and all this will burn again. The lords of the North are proud. They will not forgive. If they rise, so too will their banners, and we will be back where we started, blood and fire across the Seven Kingdoms."
Jon's voice cracked with anger. "And you think this will stop that? You think they'll thank you for throwing them in chains?"
Tywin's gaze didn't waver. "They will thank me when their sons are not dying in another war."
Jon let out a breath that sounded half like a laugh, half like a growl. "You think this can be solved by walls and cells. You don't understand them. You don't understand him." He pointed toward Robert, still kneeling, silent and unmoving. "You speak of him as if he's already lost."
Tywin's eyes flicked toward Robert briefly, then back to Jon. "He is our king. His will must be preserved."
Jon's voice dropped to a low, trembling whisper. "He has no will left to preserve."
No one spoke after that. The torches hissed softly, the only sound in the hall besides Robert's uneven breathing.
Robert's gaze never left Eddard. His hands were slick with blood now, his lips trembling as though he were trying to say something. But no words came. The noise of Tywin and Jon's argument faded into a dull hum, distant and meaningless. His heart pounded in his chest, the rhythm uneven. He didn't hear Jon's anger, or Tywin's cold logic. He didn't even feel the pain in his leg anymore.
All he could see was the stillness of Eddard's face.
Jon turned again, his voice breaking through the fog for a moment. "Listen to me, Robert," he said. "You can't let him turn this into another war. Say something. Anything. Don't let this be the end."
But Robert didn't move.
He barely noticed when Tywin stepped closer to Kevan, speaking lowly, quietly enough that only those near could hear. "No word leaves this hall until we're certain of the army's loyalty," Tywin said. "Send riders to the gates. I want the northern banners contained. No panic. No bloodshed."
Kevan nodded and left with Damon Marbrand. The Mountain and Jaime remained still, silent as statues.
Jon shook his head, stepping back, disgusted. "You play with fire, Lannister. If you think you can contain the North, you'll only light the pyre higher."
Tywin gave a faint shrug. "If so, then it burns on their hands, not mine."
Jon's face twisted with rage. He turned back to Robert, kneeling before him, gripping his shoulders. "Robert! Look at me! This is your doing. Don't let him decide what comes next. Don't let this be how it ends."
Robert's eyes finally lifted. They were red, distant, unfocused. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only a small sound came out — a broken, empty breath.
Jon's hands fell away. "Seven hells," he whispered, his voice trembling now. "What have we done?"
Tywin's gaze swept across the room. "We have secured the throne," he said simply.
Jon turned sharply. "You've secured nothing. You've killed the only man who kept this realm together."
Tywin didn't answer.
Robert swayed slightly, his strength leaving him. He lowered himself beside Eddard's body, his head bowed, his hand shaking as it reached toward his fallen friend. The hammer lay beside them both, glinting in the firelight, streaked with blood.
Jon's eyes filled with quiet, helpless fury. "The gods will damn us all for this."
Robert didn't hear him.
The torches flickered as a draft passed through the broken windows. The smoke curled toward the Iron Throne, black against the dim light. Tywin's footsteps echoed faintly as he moved to the doors, giving quiet orders to the guards beyond.
Robert stayed where he was, motionless, the world around him fading into a blur of sound and shadow.
He didn't notice Jon's glare.
He didn't notice Tywin's voice.
All he could see was the friend he'd loved like a brother lying dead at his feet.
And in the silence that followed, the throne room of King's Landing felt colder than it had ever been.