# The Red Keep, The Spider's Chambers
The chamber was small, windowless, buried in the bowels of the Red Keep where even the hot Westerosi sun could not reach. Perfect for a man whose work thrived in darkness, whose power came from secrets whispered in shadows rather than proclamations shouted from throne rooms.
Varys sat at a plain wooden desk, his soft hands—smooth as a woman's, perfumed with lavender and lemon—folding a small slip of parchment with practiced precision. The message had arrived less than an hour ago, carried by one of his "little birds"—the children he'd collected from the gutters and alleys of King's Landing, trained to be invisible, to listen and report and never, ever be noticed.
*Princess Elia Martell has reached Winterfell safely,* the coded message read. *Her children accompany her—Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon both in good health and high spirits. The Stark household has received them with honor. Arthur Dayne serves as master-at-arms. Jaime Lannister stands guard. The arrangement appears stable and long-term.*
Varys set the message aside and picked up the second report, this one even more recent—brought by a captain whose ship had just returned from Braavos with news that made the Master of Whisperers want to scream or laugh or both.
*Queen Rhaella Targaryen resides in the Sealord's Palace,* this message stated with infuriating brevity. *Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys with her. All three under the Sealord's personal protection. Ser Willem Darry commands their household guard. The Sealord has declared them honored guests of Braavos for as long as they require sanctuary.*
For a long moment, Varys simply sat there, his carefully maintained mask of pleasant neutrality slipping to reveal the fury and frustration beneath. His hands—those soft, perfumed hands that had slit throats and poisoned wine cups and orchestrated deaths from the Narrow Sea to the Sunset Sea—clenched into fists that trembled with barely controlled rage.
*Seventeen years,* he thought bitterly. *Seventeen years of careful planning, of positioning pieces on the board, of building a network that stretched from Dorne to the Wall. Seventeen years of preparation for a moment that will now never come.*
He stood abruptly, pacing the small chamber with agitation that would have shocked anyone who'd only seen his public persona. The eunuch spider, soft and simpering, concerned only with the realm's welfare and the efficient flow of information to those who paid for his services. That was the mask he showed the world—harmless, useful, utterly unthreatening.
But here, in the privacy of his hidden chambers, Varys allowed himself to be what he truly was: a Blackfyre pretender, one of the last viable males of a line that had been extinguished in blood and fire, carrying in his veins the royal blood of Old Valyria mixed with ambition sharp enough to cut gods.
His hand moved unconsciously to his head, feeling the smooth scalp he maintained with daily shaving. Beneath the careful razor work, silver-gold hair grew—the unmistakable mark of Targaryen blood, the proof that he was not the Lyseni slave's son he pretended to be but something far more dangerous.
Varys Blackfyre, though he'd long since abandoned that name for something more neutral, more forgettable. Son of Saerys Blackfyre, who'd fled to Lys after the War of the Ninepenny Kings destroyed the last organized Blackfyre resistance. Grandson of Daemon III Blackfyre, who'd died at the Stepstones trying to reclaim a throne his family had lost generations ago.
And uncle to Aegon Blackfyre—the boy who should have been king, if only the gods and circumstances had cooperated with the plan Varys had spent decades perfecting.
The plan had been elegant in its simplicity, ruthless in its execution, dependent on timing and tragedy working in concert to create the perfect opportunity.
Step one: Ensure that Rhaegar Targaryen's legitimate children died during the Sack of King's Landing. This had been the easiest part—simply fail to warn Elia about the Lannisters' approach, let Tywin's dogs do what dogs did best, and weep crocodile tears while whispering in Robert's ear about the terrible necessity of removing all Targaryen threats to the new regime.
Step two: Present his nephew—raised in secret in Pentos by Illyrio Mopatis and Varys's sister Saera—as the miraculously saved Prince Aegon, son of Rhaegar and Elia. Claim that Varys had smuggled the real prince out before the Sack, substituting a peasant baby who'd died in his place. With Elia dead, with all witnesses conveniently deceased, who could contradict such a story?
Step three: Guide Queen Rhaella and her children to Illyrio's manse in Pentos rather than letting them reach Braavos. Keep them dependent, isolated, grateful for Illyrio's generosity. Let young "Aegon" and Daenerys grow up together—cousins by the official story, perfect matches for a marriage that would unite the surviving Targaryens and provide the boy with additional legitimacy through his connection to the main line.
Step four: Wait. Build support, gather alliances, let Robert's reign grow stale and unpopular. Then, when the time was right, reveal the "true" prince—Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar, rightful king by every law of succession—backed by the Golden Company, supported by Dornish rage over Elia's murder, married to his cousin Daenerys to tie together all the surviving threads of House Targaryen.
It was perfect. Elegant. So carefully constructed that even if parts failed, the whole could adapt and continue toward the desired end.
Except now it had all collapsed with such spectacular completeness that Varys wanted to laugh at the cosmic joke of it.
Elia lived. Her children lived. They were safe in Winterfell, protected by a house whose honor was legendary, surrounded by witnesses who could testify to Prince Aegon's continued existence and Targaryen legitimacy. There would be no question of substitution, no possibility of presenting another boy as Rhaegar's son when the real one was alive and acknowledged.
And Rhaella had reached Braavos rather than Pentos—had found the Sealord's protection rather than Illyrio's carefully planned hospitality. She was out of reach, her children with her, establishing themselves in a city that prided itself on protecting those who sought sanctuary.
*Seventeen years,* Varys thought again, sinking back into his chair with uncharacteristic heaviness. *Seventeen years of planning. Seventeen years of carefully positioning every piece. And it's all worthless now because a few Northern lords decided that honor mattered more than political convenience.*
He picked up the first message again, reading the words with the kind of attention one might give an execution warrant.
*Arthur Dayne serves as master-at-arms.*
That was almost the worst part. The Sword of the Morning himself, legendary for honor and skill both, standing guard over Elia and her children. Arthur Dayne, who'd served Rhaegar with absolute loyalty, who would recognize any impostor immediately, who possessed the kind of reputation that made his word worth more than a hundred written testimonies.
With Arthur Dayne at Winterfell, vouching for Prince Aegon's identity, confirming his legitimacy, there was no possibility of presenting another boy in his place. The plan was not just compromised—it was completely impossible.
*And Jaime Lannister,* Varys added mentally, his mind working through implications with the speed of long practice. *The Kingslayer himself, standing guard over Targaryen children instead of letting them die as his father would have preferred. That's... unexpected. And potentially valuable, if I could find some way to exploit it.*
But even that slender possibility felt hollow. Jaime had chosen his path, had committed himself publicly to protecting Elia's children. Trying to suborn him now would be not just difficult but actively dangerous—the man had already demonstrated a willingness to kill his own king when conscience demanded it. What would he do to a Master of Whisperers who threatened the children he'd sworn to protect?
Varys stood again, resuming his pacing with slightly more control. The initial shock was fading, replaced by the calculating coldness that had kept him alive through decades of intrigue and betrayal.
*The plan is dead,* he acknowledged with brutal honesty. *There's no salvaging it, no adapting it to new circumstances. Aegon Blackfyre cannot become Aegon Targaryen when the real Aegon Targaryen is alive and acknowledged. The boy I've raised, the nephew I've prepared for kingship—he's worthless now. Worse than worthless—he's a liability, a living reminder of treason that could get me executed if anyone discovered the truth.*
The thought of his nephew brought a complicated mixture of emotions. The boy was two now, being raised by Illyrio and Saera in Pentos with all the privileges of a prince. He was bright, beautiful, showing all the signs of strong Valyrian blood—silver-gold hair that would have matched Varys's own if the spider ever let it grow, purple eyes that spoke of Old Valyria's glory, features that would have made him beautiful enough to inspire songs.
And he was utterly, completely useless now. A pretender with no throne to claim, a false prince whose very existence was treason against both the Baratheon and Targaryen lines.
*What do I do with him?* Varys wondered, the question carrying weight that went beyond mere logistics. *Keep him hidden in Pentos forever? Risk him eventually learning the truth and either betraying me out of anger or trying to claim his "birthright" anyway? Or...*
He didn't finish the thought. Couldn't quite finish it, not yet. The boy was his nephew, his sister's son, carrying the blood of House Blackfyre that Varys had devoted his life to restoring. Killing him felt like admitting final defeat, like acknowledging that the Blackfyre cause was truly dead.
But keeping him alive was dangerous. And Varys had not survived this long by allowing sentiment to override practical necessity.
*Later,* he decided, pushing the question aside for more immediate concerns. *I'll consider the boy's fate later, when I've had time to think through all the implications. For now, I need to understand how this happened. How did my careful plans collapse so completely without me receiving any warning?*
He moved to a small cabinet, withdrawing a ledger that contained coded records of his network's reports over the past year. Flipping through pages with practiced efficiency, he began reconstructing the sequence of events that had destroyed seventeen years of work.
The Sack of King's Landing had proceeded as expected—Tywin's army entering the city, the Mad King dying by Jaime's hand, chaos and violence spreading through the streets. Varys had positioned himself carefully away from the action, maintaining plausible deniability about anything that occurred during those terrible hours.
But here—*here*—was where things had diverged from his expectations.
*Princess Elia and her children evacuated before the Lannisters reached the Red Keep,* one report stated. *Jaime Lannister personally escorted them to safety, claiming later that he'd acted to preserve innocent lives rather than participate in their murder.*
Varys's jaw clenched. He'd had agents watching the Red Keep, had received reports about Lannister movements, but somehow this crucial detail had been missed or misreported until it was too late.
*How?* he demanded silently, his mind racing through possibilities. *How did they get out without my birds noticing? Unless...*
Unless someone had deliberately fed his network false information. Unless there had been coordination at levels he hadn't anticipated, plans made beyond his awareness, decisions reached by people he'd underestimated.
*Ned Stark,* he realized with sudden clarity. *It had to be Ned Stark, working with others I didn't account for properly. The supposedly simple, honest Northern lord has more cunning than I credited him with.*
The thought was both humbling and infuriating. Varys had spent years cultivating his image as the man who knew everything, who heard every whisper and saw every shadow. To be blindsided this completely suggested that someone had been more clever than he'd anticipated—or more lucky, which was in some ways even worse.
He continued through the reports, noting other divergences from expected patterns:
*Arthur Dayne, reported dead at the Tower of Joy, appears to be alive and serving at Winterfell.*
*Howland Reed's movements are unclear—he departed the Tower of Joy with what witnesses describe as "funeral cortege" but destination unknown.*
*Queen Rhaella reached Braavos rather than accepting offer of sanctuary in Pentos.*
Each revelation was another nail in the coffin of his grand plan. Each piece of information spoke to coordination and foresight that had somehow escaped his network's attention.
*Someone knows,* Varys realized with cold certainty. *Someone understands the game well enough to counter my moves before I even make them. Someone has been protecting the Targaryens more effectively than I've been working to eliminate them.*
The question was: who?
He ran through likely candidates mentally. Jon Arryn, the new Hand, was clever but lacked the imagination for such elaborate deception. Robert himself was far too straightforward—what you saw with the new king was exactly what you got, for better or worse. Tywin Lannister would have been capable, but his interests aligned more with eliminating Targaryens than protecting them.
*One of the Targaryens themselves?* he wondered. *Elia Martell is Dornish, trained in the subtle politics of Sunspear. Could she have anticipated my plans and worked to counter them?*
The thought was uncomfortable. Varys had always seen Elia as a victim—beautiful, doomed, tragic. The idea that she might have been actively working against his schemes while he'd underestimated her was... unsettling.
*Or perhaps there's no grand conspiracy,* another part of his mind suggested. *Perhaps it's simply chance and circumstance, the chaos of war producing unexpected outcomes. Not everything is part of a larger plan.*
But Varys had built his career on the opposite assumption—that everything *was* part of someone's plan, that chaos was simply order glimpsed through insufficient information. To accept that random chance had destroyed seventeen years of work felt like admitting defeat more completely than acknowledging he'd been outmaneuvered.
He closed the ledger, returning it to its hiding place with hands that trembled slightly with suppressed emotion. The reports were what they were—truth, or close enough to it that the difference didn't matter. No amount of analysis would change the fundamental facts.
Elia and her children lived, safe in the North.
Rhaella and her children lived, safe in Braavos.
The Targaryen line continued, acknowledged and protected.
And Aegon Blackfyre—the boy who should have been king—was nothing but a pretender without a throne to pretend to.
*What now?* Varys asked himself, the question echoing in the small chamber. *Where do I go from here?*
He could try to salvage something from the wreckage—perhaps work to eventually get Aegon Blackfyre and Daenerys together, pursue the original plan with different timing and justifications. But that felt hollow, desperate, the kind of clinging to failure that led to execution or exile.
He could abandon the Blackfyre cause entirely, accept that House Blackfyre's day was done, find some new game to play that didn't involve putting his nephew on a throne. But that felt like betraying everything he'd worked for, everyone who'd died trying to restore the black dragon to its rightful place.
Or...
*Or I could serve the realm,* Varys thought, and was surprised by the bitter laughter that escaped him. *Actually serve it, rather than using service as a mask for my own ambitions. What a novel concept.*
The idea was almost ridiculous. Varys the Blackfyre pretender, Varys the spider with poison in his web, Varys who'd orchestrated deaths and betrayals for seventeen years—suddenly becoming genuinely concerned with the realm's welfare rather than his own bloodline's restoration?
But what else was there? The alternative was continuing to scheme toward goals that were now impossible, wasting whatever years remained to him in pursuit of dead dreams.
*Perhaps,* he thought slowly, the idea taking shape even as part of him recoiled from it, *perhaps the best revenge against the gods who destroyed my plans is to actually become what I've pretended to be. To let the Blackfyre cause die with dignity rather than desperation. To use my skills and network for the realm's actual benefit rather than dynastic ambition.*
The thought sat strangely in his mind—uncomfortable but not entirely unwelcome. There was a certain freedom in it, a release from the weight of plans that had consumed decades of his life.
*And Aegon?* the practical part of his mind asked. *What about your nephew?*
Varys was quiet for a long moment, considering options that ranged from assassination to honest conversation about changed circumstances.
*I'll tell him the truth,* he decided at last. *Or as much of it as he can understand at five years old. That the world has changed, that the throne he was raised to claim is no longer available, that he must find a different path. Give him the choice—continue being groomed for impossible kingship, or learn to be something else entirely.*
It wasn't a perfect solution. But then, nothing about this situation was perfect. The best Varys could do was adapt to circumstances that had demolished his carefully constructed plans and try to build something new from the ruins.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Enter," he called, his voice resuming its usual soft, pleasant tone—the mask sliding back into place with practiced ease.
A small child entered, one of his little birds—a girl of perhaps eight years, thin and sharp-eyed, moving with the careful silence he'd trained into all his agents. She carried a message in her small hand, holding it out without speaking.
Varys took the paper, unfolding it with fingers that showed no sign of his earlier agitation. Another report, this one from his agent in Winterfell itself:
*Young Lord Cregan Stark and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen display unusual compatibility. Observers report conversations that seem too mature for their ages, understanding that suggests knowledge beyond their years. The Stark household finds them both promising and slightly unsettling. Arthur Dayne has commented that teaching such students is "either deeply rewarding or mildly terrifying depending on the day."*
Despite everything, despite his ruined plans and demolished ambitions, Varys felt a genuine smile tug at his lips. *Children who unsettle their teachers through excessive competence,* he thought with real amusement. *That's either wonderfully promising or deeply ominous for the realm's future.*
"Is there a reply, Lord Varys?" the girl asked in the careful, neutral tone all his birds were taught.
"No, child. No reply needed." He pressed a silver stag into her small hand. "You've done well. Now go, and speak of this to no one."
When she'd departed, Varys returned to his desk, staring at the various reports that chronicled the complete destruction of everything he'd worked toward.
*Seventeen years,* he thought one final time. *Seventeen years, all for nothing.*
But perhaps—just perhaps—"nothing" was better than what he'd been trying to achieve. Perhaps the realm was better served by legitimate Targaryen princes growing up under honorable protection than by pretenders and false claims and the endless cycle of rebellion that had plagued Westeros for generations.
*Perhaps,* Varys admitted with something that might have been relief, *the plan failing is the best thing that could have happened. For the realm, if not for House Blackfyre.*
He stood, moving to the small mirror he kept hidden in a cabinet. For a long moment, he stared at his reflection—smooth head, soft features, the eunuch spider that everyone underestimated.
Then, with deliberate ceremony, he picked up his razor and began his daily shaving routine. Removing the silver-gold stubble that would betray his heritage, maintaining the mask that kept him alive and useful.
But as he worked, Varys found himself wondering what it would feel like to let the hair grow. To stop pretending to be something he wasn't. To embrace truth rather than deception.
*Later,* he decided, finishing the shaving with practiced efficiency. *Perhaps later, when the realm is more stable. When revealing myself wouldn't destabilize everything.*
*Or perhaps never.*
*Perhaps some masks are meant to be worn forever.*
But in the privacy of his hidden chambers, with no audience to perform for, Varys Blackfyre allowed himself one small, genuine smile.
The plan was dead.
The Blackfyre cause was finished.
And somehow, impossibly, he felt lighter than he had in seventeen years.
The game continued.
But perhaps—just perhaps—he would play it differently now.
For the realm's benefit rather than his own bloodline's glory.
*What a novel concept,* he thought again with bitter amusement.
*What a strange, impossible, slightly appealing novel concept.*
Outside his chamber, the Red Keep continued its eternal dance of power and politics, schemes and betrayals, ambitions colliding in the darkness while kings sat thrones they didn't understand.
And in that darkness, the Spider began weaving new webs—not for House Blackfyre's restoration, but for something else entirely.
Something that might actually benefit the realm rather than simply replacing one dynasty with another.
It was a beginning.
Not the one he'd planned.
But a beginning nonetheless.
*Winter is coming,* the Stark words whispered through his mind.
*But perhaps,* Varys thought, *so is spring.*
*Eventually.*
*If we're very, very lucky.*
—
# The Red Keep, The King's Chambers
*That same evening, the night before the royal wedding*
The king's chambers reeked of wine and sweat and the peculiar musk of a man who'd been drinking steadily since dawn. Robert Baratheon sat slumped in a chair before the hearth, his massive frame sprawled with the graceless abandon of someone who'd long since stopped caring about appearances. At his feet lay three empty wine jugs—good Arbor gold, wasted on a palate that had stopped tasting anything hours ago.
He was in his cups, thoroughly and completely, and had every intention of staying that way until unconsciousness claimed him or morning came, whichever happened first.
"More wine," he bellowed at the servant hovering nervously near the door. "And none of that watered piss you served last time. Bring the real stuff, the kind that'll put hair on a maiden's chest."
The servant—a boy of perhaps fourteen, clearly terrified of his king's legendary temper—scurried away to fetch another jug. Robert watched him go with bleary eyes, then turned his attention back to the fire that danced and crackled in the great hearth.
*Tomorrow,* he thought with something approaching nausea. *Tomorrow I marry Cersei Lannister and seal the alliance with House Lannister. Tomorrow I bind myself to a golden-haired beauty I barely know and certainly don't love.*
*Tomorrow I betray Lyanna all over again.*
The thought brought fresh anguish, and he reached for the cup at his elbow, draining what remained in three long gulps. The wine was excellent—probably costing more per bottle than most smallfolk earned in a month—but it might as well have been vinegar for all the pleasure it gave him.
Nothing gave him pleasure anymore. Not wine, not food, not the whores Ned insisted he stop visiting now that he was to be married. Everything tasted like ash, felt like betrayal, reminded him that the one person he'd wanted above all others was dead and buried in a tomb in the North.
*Lyanna.*
Her name was a prayer and a curse, a wound that wouldn't heal, a ghost that haunted every waking moment and most of his dreams. Beautiful, fierce Lyanna Stark, with her grey eyes and long brown hair and that smile that had made his heart stop the first time he'd seen it.
He'd loved her from the moment they'd met—truly loved her, with all the desperate intensity of youth that didn't know love could be complicated or impossible or doomed from the start. He'd dreamed of marrying her, of making her his queen, of building a life together that was everything his parents' cold political union had never been.
And then Rhaegar fucking Targaryen had stolen her away. Had kidnapped her from the roads near Harrenhal, had taken her south to some tower in Dorne, had done... gods knew what to her during those months of captivity.
The rage that thought generated was enough to momentarily cut through the wine-fog. Robert's massive hands clenched into fists that could have crushed skulls, his breathing growing harsh as he remembered the Battle of the Trident.
He'd killed Rhaegar there. Had caved in the dragon prince's chest with his war hammer, had sent the bastard's rubies scattering into the river's current where they probably still lay, had watched the light fade from those Targaryen eyes and felt... nothing. No satisfaction, no sense of justice served. Just hollow rage that killing the man who'd taken Lyanna couldn't bring her back.
"Your Grace?" came a tentative voice from the doorway. The servant had returned, carrying a fresh jug with the kind of careful reverence usually reserved for holy relics. "The wine you requested."
"About fucking time," Robert growled, gesturing impatiently. "Pour it and then get out. I want to be alone."
"But Your Grace, Lord Arryn said—"
"I don't give a shit what Jon said!" Robert's voice rose to a roar that made the servant flinch. "Pour the wine and leave, or I'll find someone who can follow simple fucking instructions!"
The boy hurried to comply, hands shaking as he filled Robert's cup to the brim. Wine sloshed over the edge, staining the fine carpet, but neither of them cared. As soon as the cup was full, the servant practically ran from the chamber, clearly wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and the volatile king.
Robert raised the cup in a mock toast to the empty room. "To love," he said bitterly. "To loss. To marrying women you don't love because kingdoms demand it. To spending the rest of your life wishing you were dead so you could be with the one person who mattered."
He drank deeply, feeling the wine burn its way down his throat. It was good wine—probably some vintner's finest work, carefully aged and perfectly balanced. It deserved better than being guzzled by a heartbroken king who couldn't taste it anyway.
*Lyanna,* he thought again, the name circling his mind like a mantra. *I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I failed you. I'm sorry I have to move on and pretend life matters when you're not in it.*
The worst part was knowing she'd never loved him back. Oh, she'd been kind enough—Lyanna was kind to everyone who deserved it. She'd smiled at his jokes, had danced with him at feasts, had treated him with the courtesy due to her brother's best friend and fellow ward of Jon Arryn.
But love? That fire he'd felt burning in his chest every time he looked at her? He'd seen no reflection of it in her grey eyes. She'd agreed to their betrothal because that's what high-born ladies did—they married as their fathers commanded and made the best of it. But he'd always known, deep down, that he was getting her duty rather than her heart.
And then Rhaegar had taken even that away.
Robert pushed himself to his feet with the careful movements of a drunk trying very hard not to fall over. He lurched toward the window, needing air, needing to see something beyond these suffocating chambers that smelled like failure and lost dreams.
The city sprawled below him—King's Landing, capital of the Seven Kingdoms, seat of power that had cost so much blood to win. From this height, it looked almost beautiful—a scatter of lights against darkness, smoke rising from a thousand hearths, the bay reflecting the moonlight like scattered silver.
But Robert knew what it really was. Half a million people crammed together in filth and desperation, the stench rising to the Red Keep on hot days, riots breaking out whenever bread prices rose or some lord offended the wrong faction. It was a seething mass of humanity that needed constant management, constant attention, constant fear of the king's justice to keep from tearing itself apart.
And he was supposed to rule it. Him, Robert Baratheon, who'd been raised to inherit Storm's End and never wanted anything beyond the Stormlands' borders. Who'd fought a war to avenge the woman he loved and ended up with a throne he didn't want.
*Should have been Ned,* he thought with bitter certainty. *Ned would make a better king. He's got the temperament for it—patient, thoughtful, willing to listen to endless complaints and settle petty disputes. I'm just good for killing things.*
A knock at the door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. "Go away!" he shouted. "I said I wanted to be alone!"
"It's Jon, Your Grace," came the Hand's familiar voice, carrying that note of patient authority that had kept Robert from doing anything too catastrophically stupid since they were boys together in the Eyrie. "I need to speak with you. It's important."
"Everything's fucking important according to you," Robert muttered, but he didn't shout again. Jon Arryn was one of the few people he genuinely respected, one of the even fewer he actually trusted. If Jon said it was important, it probably was.
"Enter," he called with poor grace, returning to his chair and reaching for his wine cup.
Jon Arryn entered with the measured dignity that marked everything he did, though his weathered face showed concern as he took in the scene—the empty jugs, the king's disheveled appearance, the air thick with wine fumes and self-pity.
"You're drunk," Jon observed without judgment, settling into the chair opposite Robert's.
"Noticed that, did you?" Robert raised his cup in sardonic toast. "That's why you're Hand of the King, Jon. Nothing gets past you."
"Robert—"
"Don't," Robert interrupted, his voice suddenly raw with emotion he couldn't quite control. "Don't tell me it's time to put away childish things and accept my responsibilities. Don't tell me Lyanna's gone and I need to move on. Don't tell me Cersei Lannister is beautiful and intelligent and everything a queen should be. I know all that. I've heard it a thousand times from a thousand different voices."
He drained his cup again, reaching immediately for the jug to refill it. "It doesn't change the fact that tomorrow I'm marrying a woman I don't love, binding myself to a family I don't trust, pretending that any of this matters when the only person who ever mattered is dead and buried in Winterfell's crypts."
Jon was quiet for a long moment, his blue eyes studying Robert with the kind of concern usually reserved for wounded animals that might bite. When he finally spoke, his voice carried genuine sympathy beneath the practical wisdom.
"I know this is difficult, Robert. I know it's not the life you wanted, not the future you dreamed of. But the realm needs stability. It needs a king who can unite the great houses, who can heal the wounds this war opened. Your marriage to Cersei serves that purpose."
"Everything serves that purpose," Robert said bitterly. "My marriage, my crown, my entire fucking life—all of it exists to serve purposes I never chose and don't care about."
He stood again, pacing with the restless energy of a caged animal. "Do you know what I really want, Jon? I want to give all of this—the throne, the crown, the responsibility—to Ned. Let him be king. He'd be good at it, and I could go back to Storm's End and live out my days drinking and hunting and trying to forget that I wasted my youth fighting for something I never achieved."
"You achieved victory," Jon pointed out gently. "You overthrew a mad king, united half the kingdom in rebellion, established a new dynasty—"
"I didn't save her!" The words exploded out of Robert like a physical force, wine sloshing from his cup as he gestured violently. "Victory, dynasty, throne—what does any of it matter when the one thing I fought for was already lost? When Ned came back from Dorne with news that she'd died in that fucking tower, that all my efforts to reach her came too late—"
His voice broke, emotion overwhelming even his wine-dulled senses. "She died thinking I'd failed her, Jon. Died believing no one was coming to save her. And she was right. I did fail her. I failed the only person who ever mattered."
Jon stood, moving closer with the careful approach of someone dealing with a wounded animal. "Robert," he said quietly, his voice carrying steel beneath the compassion, "Lyanna's death was tragic. I don't dispute that, don't minimize it. But blaming yourself for circumstances beyond your control, destroying yourself with guilt and wine and self-pity—that doesn't honor her memory. That just wastes the life she would have wanted you to live."
"You didn't know her," Robert said, but some of the fury had drained out of him, replaced by exhaustion that went bone-deep. "You didn't see how alive she was, how fierce. She had this way of looking at the world like she could see through all the bullshit to what actually mattered. And she mattered, Jon. She mattered more than thrones or crowns or anything else I've gained by losing her."
He slumped back into his chair, suddenly looking older than his twenty-two years. "Tomorrow I marry Cersei Lannister. I'll stand before the High Septon and swear vows I don't mean to a woman I barely know. I'll smile and pretend it's what I want while inside I'm screaming that this is wrong, all of it is wrong, that I should be marrying Lyanna instead."
"But you'll do it anyway," Jon said with quiet certainty. "Because beneath the drinking and the rage and the grief, you're still the man who united half the kingdom against tyranny. Still the man who understands that duty sometimes means doing what hurts rather than what heals."
Robert stared into his wine cup, seeing nothing but dark liquid that promised oblivion if he drank enough of it. "Does it get easier?" he asked quietly. "The grief, the guilt, the knowledge that you're moving on without someone who should have been beside you?"
Jon was quiet for a long moment before answering. "No," he said with brutal honesty. "It doesn't get easier. You just get better at carrying it. And eventually—years from now, perhaps—you wake up and realize you've managed an entire day without that crushing weight on your chest. The grief becomes something you carry with you rather than something that carries you."
"That's supposed to be comforting?"
"It's supposed to be truthful," Jon replied. "I won't lie to you and say time heals all wounds or that you'll forget her or that someday you'll love Cersei the way you loved Lyanna. But I can tell you that life continues, whether we want it to or not. And the choice is whether we continue with it or let ourselves be buried alongside those we've lost."
Robert drank again, the wine no longer burning quite so fiercely. "You sound like a septon."
"I sound like an old man who's buried too many people he loved," Jon corrected gently. "And who's learned that the best way to honor the dead is to live well rather than die slowly from their absence."
The fire crackled, sending sparks dancing up the chimney. Outside, King's Landing continued its eternal rhythms—people living and dying and loving and fighting, all of them unaware that their king sat in his chambers drowning his grief in wine the night before his wedding.
"I should sleep," Robert said eventually, though he made no move to stand. "Tomorrow will be... difficult. Better to face it with a clear head."
"You have time yet," Jon replied. "Rest, Robert. Let the wine wear off, let yourself grieve without audience or expectation. Tomorrow you can be the king the realm needs. Tonight, just be a man who loved and lost."
After Jon departed—with promises to send servants with food and water to help combat the inevitable hangover—Robert sat alone in his chambers, staring into the fire and thinking about the woman he'd loved and the woman he was about to marry.
*Lyanna,* he thought one final time. *I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you, couldn't give you the life you deserved, couldn't be the man you might have loved if things had been different.*
*But I'll try to be a good king. I'll try to rule well, to protect the realm you died defending, to make something worthwhile out of this crown I never wanted.*
*It won't make up for failing you. Nothing could.*
*But maybe—maybe—it's enough to make your death mean something.*
The wine jug sat beside him, still half full, promising oblivion if he wanted it.
Instead, Robert pushed it away.
He would drink water tonight. Would face tomorrow sober, with clear eyes and a heavy heart.
Would marry Cersei Lannister and try to build something from the ruins of his dreams.
Because that's what kings did—even kings who wished they'd died on the Trident instead of winning their war.
The fire burned low, shadows lengthening across ancient stones.
And Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, sat vigil over his lost love's memory one last time before duty demanded he move on without her.
*Winter is coming,* the Stark words whispered.
But for Robert, winter had already arrived.
And it would last the rest of his life.
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