The black raven reached the Red Keep before Robert Baratheon's coffin had completed half its journey.
That day, all the bells in the city began to toll in slow, mournful rhythm. Their deep resonance echoed throughout King's Landing, lingering long in the air like a spirit reluctant to depart.
Hundreds of thousands gazed up in astonishment at the bell towers, unwilling to accept what the dolorous sounds portended.
The King is dead?
The expressions exchanged between neighbors confirmed what none wished to believe.
The King is dead.
The Great Sept of Baelor hastily arranged a memorial service for the smallfolk to pay their respects. The High Septon announced that he and the seven Most Devout would seclude themselves for seven days to pray for King Robert's soul, beseeching the Seven for blessings upon the departed.
The plaza before the Sept filled instantly with a sea of humanity. The compassionate statue of Baelor the Blessed stood silent witness as the tolling bells proclaimed the kingdom's loss.
Such mournful bells.
People would long remember the peace that had prevailed under King Robert's rule, his booming laughter, and the magnificent tourneys held in times of plenty.
Would these days of relative contentment pass away with the bells' final toll?
Many mourned for King Robert with genuine sorrow.
Merchants who had black cloth and garments in their storerooms earned countless dragons as a result. Their hands could scarce keep pace with demand as they simply tossed coins into heaps, which clinked and clattered in mercantile melody.
People's joys and sorrows flow in such different channels.
Yet none dared smile at such a moment.
Even those who might recall the happiest memories, who secretly yearned for the return of Targaryen rule, who harbored hatred for the Iron Throne and all the high lords—even these maintained solemn mien.
After all, the King was dead.
The bells tolled without cease. People clad in black garments and wearing ribbons of mourning streamed into the Great Sept like the incoming tide, then flowed out again like the ebb.
The human flood then separated into individuals left adrift in uncertainty.
What now?
Some stood bewildered for a time. Others shed tears, sobbed, sighed, or offered brief lamentations. All eventually had no choice but to return silently to their stations and continue their daily labors.
What else could they do?
Life must continue its inexorable course.
In the span of half a day, King Robert's era had become an irreversible past, receding with each mourner's departure into increasingly distant history.
The King's death proved both sensational and oddly quiet.
King's Landing seemed transformed by this event, yet paradoxically unchanged.
The city appeared to function as before, but beneath the surface, powerful currents surged in darkness.
The Red Keep, naturally, remained the nexus of all these swirling eddies and treacherous undertows.
Every courtier offered prayers in the castle's sept for beloved King Robert. They beseeched the Father to judge him justly and the Mother to grant mercy, adding a hundred other blessings besides.
Their prayers were more formal and prolonged than those of the smallfolk, though no more sincere.
They exchanged furtive glances, each attempting to conceal their true thoughts while striving to discern what lay in the hearts of others.
The transformation from friend to foe required but a moment's notice.
As the setting sun cast its golden glow through the stained glass windows, Hanna, acting as Master of Laws, announced the conclusion of the memorial service. Simultaneously, she conveyed the first decree issued by His Grace, King Joffrey, First of His Name:
Make all necessary preparations for the funeral of the late King Robert Baratheon; Prepare for the coronation ceremony; Appoint Lord Tyrion Lannister as Master of Coin; Appoint Lady Hanna as Master of Laws; Appoint Sandor Clegane as Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing; Inform the Seven Kingdoms that Lord Regent Tywin, Queen Regent Cersei, and Lord Regent and Hand of the King Eddard Stark shall serve as regents until His Grace comes of age.
The assembled courtiers sank to their knees and intoned with one voice: "Long live His Grace, King Joffrey, First of His Name!"
Renly Baratheon forced himself to kneel and offer congratulations.
His lifeless expression stemmed not from grief, but from the effort to conceal his inner terror and bewilderment.
Stannis is dead, Robert is dead—am I next?
Though evidence remained elusive, Renly had already concluded that both deaths were inextricably linked to House Lannister.
Who benefited most from these convenient deaths? The answer seemed painfully obvious.
The Lannisters!
Tywin and Cersei were named regents. The Imp had secured a seat on the Small Council. The Kingslayer stood poised to advance further at any moment. The Red Keep would soon belong wholly to the lions of Casterly Rock.
Renly could see the dismal future taking shape before his eyes.
The Iron Throne, eroded by lions. Dragonstone, possessed by Joffrey.
After years of political maneuvering, all that would remain to House Baratheon was Storm's End—their home of three centuries, no more, no less. Fate played cruel jests indeed.
And even to secure this bleak ending, he must first escape King's Landing.
Renly placed all his hopes on Loras Tyrell.
Yes, House Tyrell is no trifling power. The Lannisters themselves are absent from the capital—their lackeys would not dare act precipitously. The men of Highgarden will surely protect me. They must.
Renly could only cling to this desperate hope.
As the courtiers gradually dispersed, Renly moved with the crowd toward freedom, remaining close to Ser Loras.
He would act tonight.
Hanna stood in the sept, watching Renly's receding figure with calculating eyes.
She failed to comprehend His Grace's strategy.
Why allow Renly to depart?
Even if the Hound had become too visible to conduct an assassination, others could surely succeed. At minimum, they ought to make the attempt.
But she had long since learned the value of silence, obedience, and attending strictly to her duties.
She turned to the Hound and said simply, "Go."
Night had fallen, deep and velvet.
By dim torchlight, dozens of destriers with hooves wrapped in thick cloth moved silently from the stables toward a side entrance of the Red Keep. Armored knights led them by their reins.
Crack~
The sound of the door opening seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness, as though it might be heard throughout the sleeping city.
Renly and Ser Loras both recognized this as mere illusion.
Provided their escape remained undetected, they could depart the Red Keep quietly. Only one significant obstacle remained: the city gates.
Tonight's plan was elegantly simple: exit the Red Keep, leave the city through the Mud Gate, take ship across the Blackwater Rush, then journey south along the Kingsroad toward home.
Unfortunately, thanks to the Hound's influence, the gold cloaks maintained heightened vigilance.
The night garrison at each gate had increased to ten squads, and the captains had largely been replaced by men of stubborn disposition who displayed rigid adherence to duty.
The captain of the Mud Gate, Ironhand, presented a particular problem.
The man had defected wholeheartedly to the Hound and the Lannisters. He would not permit their passage without resistance.
Renly had prepared himself for armed conflict.
If they could close the distance swiftly, his elite knights would prove sufficient to overwhelm the gold cloaks. Once beyond the gate, nothing would prevent his return to Storm's End.
Maximum speed, minimum time—they must breach the gate before the city could respond.
After traversing several hundred yards from the Red Keep, they mounted their horses and rode directly toward the Mud Gate at full gallop, startling countless sleepers along their route.
The thunder of hooves and clatter of armor in the night hours caused many to cower beneath their blankets rather than rise to investigate. Only after the sounds receded did they relax slightly, secretly wondering what momentous events might be unfolding, and whether these would affect their humble lives.
The knights soon reached Fishmonger's Square, beyond which stood the Mud Gate.
Renly glimpsed hope on the horizon.
Though the gate remained tightly closed, only a single squad of gold cloaks huddled around a bonfire, with an officer standing apart from the rest.
No!
Renly's heart plummeted. That officer was not Ironhand!
The Hound signaled the gold cloaks to open the gate. "Lord Renly departs in such haste? Why bid no farewells to your fellow councillors?"
Renly regarded the widening gap in the gate with suspicion. Am I dreaming?
The Hound turned his gaze upon Loras. "And why does the Knight of Flowers wish to abandon the city as well? Do you not desire an audience with His Grace?"
Renly cautiously urged his mount forward. The Hound made no move to intercept him.
Renly glanced back at Loras with uncertainty.
Loras offered a melancholy smile. "My good lord, you must go. It is better that I remain."
Bewildered, Renly hesitated in silence before leading half the Baratheon knights through the city gate, making for the harbor.
Many watched Renly's retreating form until the gate closed once more.
Melisandre extinguished her flames with a gesture, shaking her head in disappointment. "It is not you. The blood of kings flows in your veins, but you are not the one."
The ancient texts of Asshai foretold: "After the long summer, the stars will bleed. Azor Ahai shall be reborn amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons from stone."
Prince of prophecy, where do you hide?
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