Robert Baratheon's roar—thick with betrayal, fury, and disbelief—echoed through the hall like the dying bellow of a wounded stag.
Every ear rang.
The air reeked of blood and spilled wine.
Every eye turned to the woman in the fine gown. Golden hair. Face white as bone.
Cersei Lannister.
Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Her beautiful blue eyes swam with confusion. With absurdity.
Her mind was blank. She couldn't process the madness unfolding before her.
Assassinate Robert?
Assassinate her own son, Joffrey?
For the Lannisters?
What vile, idiotic slander was this?
"CERSEI!"
Robert's bloodshot eyes locked onto her. His bloated body trembled with rage so pure it seemed to warp the air around him.
He was a bull. Enraged. Charging.
Each step made the stone tiles groan beneath his weight.
"You poisonous bitch!"
His spittle flew. Nearly hit her face.
"I should've known! I should've listened to Jon!"
"You Lannisters—all of you—snakes in your veins!"
"You tried to kill your own son!"
"Do you have any humanity left?!"
The accusation finally snapped Cersei out of her shock.
The absurdity faded. The confusion burned away.
What remained was Lannister pride. And the fury of being humiliated in public.
"I kill Joffrey?"
Cersei let out a sharp, bitter laugh.
"Robert, has the wine finally rotted your brain?!"
"You'd believe a flea-ridden rat over your wife of fifteen years?!"
"Joffrey is my son! Flesh of my flesh!"
Her defense only stoked the flames.
"Shut your mouth!"
Robert raised his hand—a hand like a meat cleaver.
Before it could fall, a golden figure stepped between them.
Jaime Lannister.
He didn't even look at his sister. Just stood there, one hand gripping his bloodied sword, his white Kingsguard armor a wall between king and queen.
"Your Grace," Jaime said evenly. "Please. Calm yourself."
"The matter isn't clear. An assassin's words cannot be trusted."
Robert stared at that handsome face—so much like Cersei's—and his rage blazed hotter.
"If you hadn't killed the bastard with one stroke, would I be trusting his words?!"
"If you Lannisters had nothing to hide, why did you silence him before he finished talking?!"
"Get out of my way, Kingslayer!"
"All of you Lannisters—straight to the seven hells!"
"Guards! Seize this woman! Throw her in the dungeons!" Robert bellowed.
Jaime's jaw tightened.
Kingslayer.
Robert had pardoned him. Let him keep his white cloak.
And now he spat that name again.
If he hadn't killed the Mad King, the wildfire would've swallowed the entire city. Every man, woman, and child.
But no one remembered that.
The Gold Cloaks exchanged glances. No one moved.
One was the king. One was the queen.
This wasn't an assassination anymore.
This was the royal family tearing itself apart.
Ned Stark stood frozen. His palms slick with cold sweat.
His heart hammered.
Too fast.
Everything was happening too fast.
Lynn.
The name flashed through his mind.
This had Lynn's fingerprints all over it.
He'd left the throne room moments ago—"exhausted from his magic"—and then the assassin conveniently appeared, pointing his finger straight at Cersei.
Ned's thoughts raced.
If the assassin had succeeded in killing Joffrey...
Ned's face went cold.
Joffrey and Sansa had been attacked together. Cersei would've blamed him. The Starks.
It should've been wolves versus lions.
But now it was stags versus lions.
And the wolves? Removed from the board entirely.
And Cersei's children aren't Robert's.
The lions and stags would tear each other apart eventually.
But first, all the other players had to be cleared from the field.
This kind of manipulation. This kind of foresight.
It was like watching someone play cyvasse with living pieces.
Lynn had the gift of prophecy. Ned knew that much.
But what else could he do?
I need to talk to him.
"Your Grace!"
An old, steady voice cut through the chaos.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stepped forward and knelt.
"The Queen's alleged crime is grave. But one assassin's word is not enough to condemn her."
"I beg you, Your Grace—confine the Queen to Maegor's Holdfast. Let the City Watch and the Kingsguard guard her together. Investigate. Then decide."
The old knight's words cooled Robert's fury. Slightly.
He looked at Barristan. Then at Cersei, still shielded by Jaime.
His chest heaved.
Finally, he spat one word through clenched teeth.
"Fine."
Robert collapsed back onto the Iron Throne like a puppet with cut strings. He waved a hand weakly.
"Get out. All of you. Get out!"
Lynn sat by the window.
The Red Keep was in chaos. Shouts echoed from the throne room.
He heard every word.
The stone he'd thrown had made waves. Big ones.
Littlefinger's carefully crafted "wolves versus lions" had been twisted into "stags versus lions."
Temporary, yes. But enough.
Enough to drag the Lannisters' reputation through the mud.
Enough to buy Ned time.
And most importantly?
Joffrey owed him.
Joffrey was a spoiled brat. Petty. Vindictive.
Cross him, and he'd make your life hell.
But save him?
He'd worship you.
Kids were like that.
And maybe, just maybe, Joffrey could be useful later.
Like if he happened to walk in on his mother and Jaime...
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Lynn adjusted his breathing. Made his voice sound weak.
"Who?"
"Lynn, it's me. Sansa Stark."
"Father asked me to bring you dinner. And medicine."
Sansa?
Lynn's brow twitched.
Perfect timing.
He opened the door.
Sansa stood there holding a silver tray. Her face was full of worry.
She looked at his pale complexion, guilt and gratitude swimming in her blue eyes.
"Lynn, I... thank you. For saving Prince Joffrey."
"I—"
"Come in, Lady Sansa." Lynn stepped aside.
Sansa entered. Set the tray on the table.
The room was quiet. Only the crackle of the hearth.
She stole glances at him.
This man from the North was different from every knight she'd ever met.
He wasn't romantic like Ser Loras. Wasn't flamboyant like Jaime.
He was still. Cold. Strong.
Like the frozen plains of the North.
"I heard... the Queen was confined," Sansa said softly. Uneasily.
"King's Landing's game of thrones is filthier than you think, Lady Sansa."
Lynn poured himself water.
"Sometimes, what you see isn't the truth."
Sansa's heart skipped.
She thought of Joffrey stomping on that drunk's corpse. Of the Queen's wild eyes when accused.
None of it matched the songs. The stories of heroes and princesses.
Lynn saw the confusion in her eyes.
Good.
Plant the seed now. Water it later.
Maybe she'd stop bending over backward for that little psychopath.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Another knock.
This one was different. Rhythmic. Deliberate.
Lynn's eyes sharpened.
"Lady Sansa."
"Oh—yes, of course..." Sansa stood quickly, curtsied, and hurried out with the empty tray.
Lynn walked to the door.
Opened it.
Outside stood a man in plain robes. Plump. Hands folded in his sleeves.
Bald head. Gentle, mysterious smile. A faint scent of powder.
Varys.
The Spider.
"Lord Lynn." Varys's voice was silk. "An uninvited visit, I hope I haven't disturbed your rest."
His eyes—always smiling—were like two bottomless wells.
"My little birds just sang me a very interesting song."
"A song about direwolves, golden lions, and... an invisible spider stirring the pot."
Varys smiled. Stepped inside.
"I thought perhaps we could talk."
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