Scene 1: The Lion's Ledger
POV: Robert Baratheon
Location: The King's Solar, Maegor's Holdfast.
Robert stood over a basin of steaming water, scrubbing the dirt from his arms. The water turned a murky slate color, swirling with the grime. After refreshing himself, he went to his Solar.
He felt strangely calm. The System was silent. The "Warning" box was gone. The city was holding.
The door opened. Tywin Lannister entered the solar. He was impeccable in crimson and gold armor, his cape falling in perfect folds, his face a mask of hard, unyielding authority.
Tywin stopped three paces from the table. He offered a stiff, measured bow—the bare minimum required by protocol, but a bow nonetheless.
"The city is secured, Your Grace," Tywin said. His voice was cool, precise. "My engineers have finished relocating the caches to the Dragonpit. The pyromancers are under guard."
"Good," Robert said, drying his hands on a rough towel. "And the Red Keep?"
"My men hold the courtyard. Yours hold the Holdfast," Tywin said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "A precaution you felt necessary, I assume?"
"I like to keep my own door, Lord Tywin."
Tywin walked to the window, looking out at the city he had intended to sack, now teeming with orderly evacuation lines. He turned back, his face hardening.
"You cannot be half a King, Your Grace," Tywin said abruptly. "The Targaryen children are alive. The Dornish woman is alive. I am told you have placed them under guard."
"They are my prisoners," Robert said, pouring himself a cup of water. "Not yours."
"They are not prisoners. They are seeds," Tywin stated, his voice dropping to a lecture. "While the boy lives, the loyalists have a King. While the girl lives, Dorne has a cause. You have won the throne, but you have not secured it. You must be brutal now so you can be benevolent later. Give the order. I will see it done."
Robert looked at the Old Lion. He saw the logic. It was the logic of a man who solved problems by deleting them.
"No," Robert said.
Tywin stiffened. "It is a mistake. It is—"
"It is leverage," Robert cut him off. "If I kill Elia Martell, Oberyn poisons my wells for twenty years. If I kill the boy, Viserys becomes the undisputed claimant across the water. I don't need dead martyrs, Tywin. I need live leverage."
Robert leaned forward. "I need Doran Martell paralyzed by hope, not radicalized by grief. I keep them alive. And you will control your dogs. If Gregor Clegane looks at that nursery wrong, he loses his head. Do we understand each other?"
Tywin stared at him, cold fury radiating off him. He clearly thought Robert was being naive. He opened his mouth to argue, likely to threaten to withdraw his support.
Robert anticipated the move.
"But your House has done the Realm a great service today, Lord Tywin," Robert said, his tone shifting, becoming warmer. "The Wildfire. It was a threat I could not have managed alone. Your sappers.. workers... your son... they saved this city."
Tywin went very still. "Ser Jaime did his duty."
"He did more than duty," Robert said, nodding with feigned admiration. "He struck the first blow against the Mad King. He is a warrior born. Exactly the kind of man I need guarding my back. I intend to keep him close. He will make a fine Lord Commander of the Kingsguard one day."
Tywin's eyes widened. It was a micro-expression, gone in an instant, but Robert saw it. Horror. The Kingsguard was a life sentence. It stole Tywin's heir. Robert was threatening to keep Jaime in the white cloak forever without any chance of changing that position.
"However," Robert sighed, rubbing his neck as if wrestling with a difficult choice. "I cannot ignore the debt I owe House Lannister for this day's work. The cleanup... the loyalty... it deserves a reward beyond gold."
Robert looked Tywin in the eye.
"I am willing to release him, Lord Tywin. I am willing to strip him of the White Cloak. Not as punishment, but as a boon to you. The Westerlands needs its Heir more than I need a bodyguard."
The silence stretched. Tywin Lannister didn't breathe. The "Dragonspawn" issue instantly vanished from his mind. Robert had just undone Aerys's greatest insult.
"You... would release him?" Tywin asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
"If you wish it," Robert said carelessly. "I lose a great sword, yes. But I gain a grateful Warden of the West. Take him home, Tywin. Find him a wife. Make him a Lord."
Tywin bowed. It was deeper this time. It was genuine.
"Your Grace is... generous," Tywin said. "I accept. Jaime will return to Casterly Rock."
Tywin turned to leave, his stride purposeful. He was likely already planning the wedding feast in his head.
"One more thing," Robert called out, just as Tywin reached the door.
Tywin paused, his hand on the latch. He was high on victory. He would agree to anything right now.
"You have another son, I believe?" Robert asked. "The young one?"
Tywin's face soured instantly. "Tyrion. The Imp."
"He reads, doesn't he?" Robert asked, feigning ignorance. "My sources tell me he is sharp for a boy of ten."
"He spends his life in books because he is unfit for the yard," Tywin said coldly. "He is a stunted creature. A shame to my House."
"Perfect," Robert said. "I have enough swords. I have enough heroes. What I need is a sharp mind to help with the ledgers. The Master of Coin will need a squire who can actually read a harvest report."
Robert shrugged. "Send him to court. I'll find him a place in the library or the treasury. Keep him out of your sight."
Tywin looked at Robert as if he had asked for a bucket of manure. To Tywin, Robert was offering to take out the trash.
"You want... the Imp?" Tywin asked, baffled.
"I need a reader, Tywin. Send the boy. Let him serve the crown with his quill, since he cannot serve with a sword."
"Take him," Tywin said instantly. "He is yours. Do not expect him to bring you honor, Your Grace."
"I'll manage," Robert said dryly.
Tywin nodded once more, then swept out of the room.
Robert watched him go. He picked up his water cup and drained it.
He hadn't drawn a sword. He hadn't raised his voice. But in ten minutes, he had secured the heir to the West, saved the hostages, and acquired the smartest brain in Westeros.
The System was still greyed out, without any notifications.
Hard Mode, Robert thought, a grim smile touching his lips. But I'm getting the hang of it.
Scene 2: The Snake's Warning
POV: Robert Baratheon
Location: The Rookery.
Robert didn't rest. He walked straight from the Solar to the Rookery.
With Pycelle dead, the room was occupied only by a trembling junior acolyte, barely a man grown, who looked as if he expected Robert to eat him.
Robert ignored the boy's terror and walked to the high window. Down in the courtyard, he saw Tywin Lannister talking to Kevan. Tywin looked lighter, almost victorious.
Robert turned to the acolyte.
"Write," Robert commanded.
The boy scrambled for parchment and quill, nearly knocking over an inkpot. "To whom, Your Grace?"
"Doran Martell."
Robert looked out at the city. The smoke had cleared, leaving only the dust of the evacuation. He thought of the letter Jon Arryn would have written—full of flowery condolences and 'shared grief'.
No, Robert thought. Dorne respects strength. If I apologize, they see weakness. If I beg, they see fear.
"Dictate, Your Grace," the acolyte squeaked, his quill hovering.
Robert spoke clearly, his voice filling the small, bird-smelling room.
"To Prince Doran Nymeros Martell, Lord of Sunspear.
The Mad King is dead. The Targaryen dynasty is ended.
Your sister, Elia, and her children are under my protection in the Red Keep. Tywin Lannister advised me to clean the house. I refused.
They are safe, and they will remain safe, so long as the peace of the King is kept.
War brings you ash. Fealty brings you your family.
Come to King's Landing. Swear your oath. Then you may take them home for a visit.
Signed,
Robert Baratheon, The First of His Name."
The acolyte looked up, his eyes wide. "Your Grace... 'For a visit'? It sounds... imperious. Perhaps a softer tone? To soothe the—"
"Send it," Robert said, turning away. "I didn't ask for an editor, boy. I asked for a raven."
He walked out of the Rookery, the sound of the quill scratching against the parchment following him like a dry, frantic insect.
He had the West. He had Dorne in a chokehold. Now, he just needed his brother.
Scene 3: The City of Sand POV: Eddard Stark Location: The Dragon Gate, King's Landing. Time : 1-1.5 week later
Ned Stark rode through the shadow of the Dragon Gate with his hand gripping the hilt of Ice so tightly his knuckles ached.
The Northern vanguard rode behind him—hard men, tired men, men who had marched from the Trident expecting bloodbath. Ned's eyes scanned the streets, his heart heavy with dread. He knew Tywin Lannister. He knew the songs. The Rains of Castamere wasn't just a melody; it was a promise. When the Lion entered a castle, he didn't leave survivors; he left a message.
Ned expected to see smoke. He expected to hear the wailing of women and the laughter of soldiers drunk on rape and plunder. He expected to find a city being bled white.
Instead, he smelled... bread.
Ned blinked, pulling his horse up short.
The Street of the Sisters wasn't a slaughterhouse. It was a construction site.
Along the main thoroughfare, mounds of fresh, yellow sand were piled high, guarded by spearmen. Lannister soldiers—men in crimson cloaks who should have been kicking down doors—were instead standing guard and arranging for supply lines..
Further down, in the Cobbler's Square, a field kitchen had been set up.
"Keep the line moving!" a Lannister captain shouted, his voice hoarse. "One loaf per family! No pushing!"
Ned watched in stunned silence as a terrifyingly efficient line of smallfolk shuffled forward. They looked frightened, yes, but they were alive. They were being fed.
"Gods," Greatjon Umber rumbled from beside him, lowering his giant warhammer. "I thought the Lions were butchers. Since when do they bake?"
Ned didn't answer. He spurred his horse forward, stopping next to a Gold Cloak officer who was directing traffic away from a cordoned-off alley.
"You there!" Ned called out. "I am Eddard Stark. Where is the fighting? Where is the King?"
The officer bowed hastily. "Lord Stark! The fighting is done, my lord. The city is secure. King Robert is in the Red Keep."
"And the sack?" Ned asked, his voice tight. "Tywin Lannister's men... they are not looting?"
"Strict orders from the King, my lord," the officer said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Any man caught looting loses a hand. Any man caught raping loses his head. Ser Kevan Lannister has the baggage trains opening up now. We're to feed them and keep them calm."
Ned let out a breath he felt he had been holding since the Trident. The knot of ice in his stomach began to loosen.
He had feared that in winning the war, Robert had lost his soul. He had feared that by the time he arrived, his brother-in-heart would be standing on a mountain of innocent corpses, grinning like the Mad King.
But this... this was not the work of a madman. This was the work of a King.
"To the Red Keep," Ned commanded, his voice ringing out clear and strong. "And keep your swords sheathed. We are here to witness."
Scene 4: The Wolf and the Stag POV: Eddard Stark Location: The King's Solar, The Red Keep.
The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet, scrubbed clean of the tension that had gripped the city only days before.
Ned walked quickly, his boots echoing on the stone. He passed servants who bowed low, not out of fear, but out of a strange, hushed respect. He turned the corner toward the Royal Apartments and nodded to the guards—Baratheon men standing side by side.
He pushed open the heavy doors to the Solar.
Robert Baratheon was standing by the balcony, looking out over the city.
He wasn't the blood-caked warrior Ned had ridden with at the Trident. He was bathed and shaved, dressed in a black velvet tunic embroidered with the golden stag. He looked tired—the deep, soul-weary exhaustion of a man who hasn't slept in a week—but he looked sane.
Robert turned as Ned entered. A grin, genuine but weary, broke across his face.
"Ned," Robert said, his voice rough. "Took you long enough. I thought you were walking from the Ruby Ford."
"I rode hard, Robert," Ned said, stepping into the room. "But I stopped at the gates. I saw the bread lines. I saw the sand."
Ned paused, searching his friend's face for any sign of the madness that had consumed Aerys.
"I expected fire," Ned admitted softly. "I feared I would find you standing on a mountain of ash."
"Tywin wanted to," Robert grunted, walking over to pour two cups of wine. "He wanted to burn the whole damn thing down just to show he could. To prove his loyalty in smoke."
Robert handed a cup to Ned, then gestured toward the open balcony doors.
"Come here. Look."
Ned followed him out onto the stone balcony. It overlooked the inner gardens of Maegor's Holdfast—the most secure place in the city, surrounded by the dry moat and spike-topped walls.
Ned looked down.
In the center of the garden, sitting on a stone bench beneath a myrish cherry tree, was a woman. Elia Martell. She looked thin and haunted, but she was alive. She was watching two small children chase each other through the rosebushes. The little girl, Rhaenys, was laughing. The baby, Aegon, was waddling after her, tumbling onto the grass.
Standing at the edge of the garden, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, was Jaime Lannister. He wasn't wearing the white cloak anymore. He was watching the children, not as a jailor, but as a guardian.
"Tywin demanded their heads," Robert said quietly, staring down at the children of the man he hated. "He said I couldn't be half a King. He said they were seeds of war."
Ned gripped the stone railing. The knot of ice that had been in his stomach since he left Riverrun finally melted.
"And what did you say?" Ned whispered.
"I told him I'm not a butcher," Robert said, taking a sip of wine. "I told him that if his dogs touched them, I'd kill them myself. Tywin is taking Jaime back to the Rock. But until they leave, the Kingslayer insisted on watching them. He seems to think he owes them a life."
Robert turned to face Ned.
"I couldn't do it, Ned. I hate Rhaegar. I hate him with every drop of blood in my body. But the babes... they didn't steal Lyanna. They didn't kill Rickard."
Ned looked at the children playing in the sun, then back at his brother. He set his wine cup down on the railing.
"You did right," Ned said, his voice thick with emotion.
He stepped forward and pulled Robert into a fierce embrace.
It wasn't the formal greeting of a Warden to a King. It was the desperate, crushing hug of a brother who had almost lost everything.
"You did right, Robert," Ned said, clapping him on the back. "The Gods will favor you for this. You won the war... and you kept your soul."
Robert let out a long breath, leaning his weight against Ned for a moment, the tension finally leaving his shoulders.
"The war is done, Ned," Robert whispered.
"Aye," Ned replied, pulling back and looking his friend in the eye, smiling truly for the first time in a year. "The war is done."