The air in the room was stagnant with the stench of blood and the vinegar wash used to swab the King's torn belly. Robert lay sunk into the bed. The man who had once been a giant was now a gray, sweating figure whose breath came rough and uneven, each pull shallower than the last.
I stayed at the foot of the bed.
The sweetness lingered beneath everything else. It was the same wine I'd smelled at the stables. I watched the way the King's hands twitched and went still, his movements sluggish, hampered by the brew Lancel had kept pouring. It had been more than enough to make a seasoned hunter's feet heavy when the boar charged.
Ned sat beside the bed, his knuckles white as he held Robert's hand. He looked exhausted, his face a sad mask that couldn't quite hide the hollowness in his eyes.
"The girl," Robert wheezed, "The Targaryen girl. You were right, Ned. Let her live. Stop it... if there's time."
"I'll see to it," Ned said as his voice got thinner.
Grand Maester Pycelle hovered in the corner, his many chains clinking softly as he moved. Near him stood Ser Barristan Selmy. The old knight's head was bowed, his posture mirroring the shame he couldn't mask. He had been there in the woods, yet he was watching his King die.
Robert coughed, red flecks dotting his matted beard. "My will. Ned... you write it. You're the Regent. Lord Protector. Guard the realm until my son comes of age."
Ned called for the parchment. I watched him sit at the small table, the quill scratching in the silence. He paused, a drop of ink pooling on the tip of the nib. He didn't write Joffrey. I saw the tremor in his fingers as he penned 'my rightful heir' instead. He looked at the words for a long moment, the parchment trembling slightly. He was trying to find a path through the lies with his honor still intact, even while the room grew colder.
I watched the ink soak into the paper. In this city, that ink was as thin as the air, and Ned was counting on men who had never cared for his words. I really wanted to nudge the table, to ruin the page, but still nothing would change.
Renly stood by the window, his gaze darting between his brother and the hallway. He was young and dressed in fine silks, but his eyes mirrored his fears. When the King finally drifted into a drug-induced sleep, Renly leaned toward Ned.
"Lord Stark," Renly whispered. "We must act. My brother won't see the sunrise. We have a hundred swords between us. We can take the children now, before the Queen knows the heart has stopped."
Ned looked up, his expression hardening. "I will not dishonor my friend's final hours by shedding blood in his halls and dragging children from their beds."
"The Lannisters won't be so hesitant," Renly hissed.
I looked at Renly, then at Ned. Renly was already looking toward the door, his mind already halfway out of the city. He knew that without the King, they were all just targets. But Ned stayed firm, his gaze returning to the bed. He was a man of the North; he would follow the law until there was nothing left to follow.
Renly saw the refusal and didn't ask again. He gave a short, final nod and slipped out of the room. I knew he was heading for the stables. He was smart enough to run while the gates were still open.
The hours stretched deep into the night. Robert's breathing grew shallower, the gaps between gasps becoming long, heavy silences. Finally, there was one ragged exhale that didn't lead to another.
Pycelle leaned over the body, his long fingers feeling for a pulse. He straightened up, keeping his face blank, he announced. "The King is dead."
The room felt empty. The shield Robert had provided, however broken it had been, was gone. I felt the change in the castle with the King gone.
I looked at the small collection of things I'd managed to scavenge. The system interface flickered briefly at the edge of my vision.
[Inventory]
[Obsidian Shard x3]
[Stark Sigil (Worn)]
[Iron Key]
The shards were small, jagged pieces of dragonglass I'd found in the corners of the keep. They weren't much, but they were all I had. I needed more. I needed something to bridge the gap between a hound and the beast in this city.
A red pulse flickered at the bottom of my vision.
[Event Triggered: The Fall of the Hand]
[Instability Rising: 95% Chaos]
[Evolution Mandatory for Survival]
Ned stood up, his hand resting on the parchment. He looked ten years older than he had when the sun was up. He didn't see the way the guards at the door were already looking at him, their eyes no longer downcast. But he only saw the duty he had left to do.
"Jory," Ned said. His voice was clear, though it sounded hollow in the chamber.
"My Lord?"
"Assemble the men. We go to the Throne Room. It's time the Council heard the King's final word."
I followed him into the hall, my claws clicking on the stone. I didn't stay behind him. I moved ahead, my ears swiveling toward the barracks. I could hear the clatter of armor being buckled and I could feel what's coming. The Red Keep wasn't mourning; it was arming itself for a slaughter.
The bell began to toll from the Great Sept, a heavy, mournful iron sound that shook the floor beneath my paws.
The King was dead. The wolves were walking into the lion's mouth. And I was out of time.
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