"Tell me exactly how it happened, Ser Barristan," Ned Stark demanded, his brow furrowed as he stared at the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Ser Barristan Selmy's old face was etched with exhaustion. "My Lord Hand," he began, his voice heavy, "we were escorting His Majesty, chasing an elk through the woods. Without warning, he fell from his horse. His head struck the root of a tree, and he hasn't woken since."
He described the day's events in grim detail. No one had expected it. King Robert, a man who had seemed larger than life, brought down by a simple fall.
"He was drinking before the hunt," Ned stated, though it was hardly a question. He bit back his next words. When was Robert not drinking? He rephrased the question. "Was he drunk? Was he in any state to be on a horse?"
Ser Barristan's grey eyebrows drew together in a tight line. "Yes, my lord. The king drank a great deal before he mounted. As for whether he was drunk... I cannot say for certain. We strongly advised His Majesty to postpone the hunt, but no one could disobey a direct order from the king."
"Damn it," Ned muttered, anger and frustration churning in his gut. He knew it was true. No one could dissuade Robert once the stubborn man had his mind set on something. This tragedy was of his own making.
For a king to be so reckless, to fall from his horse in a drunken stupor… the shame of it was one thing, but the turmoil it would unleash upon the Seven Kingdoms was another entirely. Especially now. With the truth about Joffrey's parentage discovered, Robert's death would ignite a catastrophic succession crisis.
Ned would never allow the incestuous son of Cersei and the Kingslayer to sit the Iron Throne. He resolved to act. He would write to Stannis Baratheon on Dragonstone and bid him sail for King's Landing at once. If Robert died, the crown rightfully passed to his elder younger brother. Ned valued the grim, dutiful Stannis far more than the charming but frivolous Renly.
As Ned returned to the Tower of the Hand to pen his letter, another of Robert's brothers was growing desperate. Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, could not sit still.
He had just returned from the Red Keep after visiting his brother. The king remained in a coma, his large frame already seeming to shrink as the life drained out of him. And there was a smell in the room—a faint, rancid odor that Renly knew all too well. It was the smell of death, the same smell that had filled the besieged halls of Storm's End years ago, when men died by the dozens every day.
"Loras, what am I to do?" Renly paced his chambers, his handsome face a mask of anxiety. "I fear my brother is truly lost this time. If he dies, the throne cannot pass to that bastard Joffrey. But that stubborn fool, Ned Stark, will surely insist my brother Stannis is the heir. What then becomes of me?"
He stopped and turned to Loras Tyrell, his blue eyes flashing with resentment. "If that dreary man Stannis becomes king, he'll turn King's Landing into a joyless monastery! He knows nothing of pleasure, only training and fighting. He'll ruin everything! The nobles of the court don't want a harsh new king. I'm the one they support. I should sit the Iron Throne."
"Relax, my lord," Loras said, stepping behind Renly and placing his hands reassuringly on his shoulders. He rested his head against Renly's back, a confident smile on his face. "Everyone knows you are the most beloved man in King's Landing. We would all much rather see you as king than your brother. And you can rest assured, House Tyrell and the entire Reach will stand with you. With your own Stormlands, that's two of the Seven Kingdoms in your corner."
Renly took Loras's hand, the tension in his face finally easing. "You're right, Loras. With the Stormlands and the Reach, I already have a stronger claim than Stannis."
"Then we must act quickly," Loras urged. "We'll return to your lands, gather your army, and march on King's Landing before Stannis can even set sail. By the time we hold the city, not even the honorable Hand of the King can deny us. He'll have no choice but to accept the new reality."
"Yes," Renly said, his voice now filled with ambition. "If we take the capital first, the matter will be settled!"
While many whispered about the king's fading health, the end came with shocking speed. A formal announcement was issued from the Red Keep: Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, was dead.
The news blew across Westeros like a winter gale.
The moment her husband took his last breath, the queen acted. Having secretly instructed Grand Maester Pycelle to administer drugs that would ensure Robert never woke, Cersei sent messengers to summon the lords of the small council. She would waste no time. Joffrey would sit the Iron Throne before the sun set.
At the same time, Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, gathered the Lannister household guards and the men of the City Watch loyal to them. Their destination was the Tower of the Hand.
"Stop! In the name of the Hand, what is the meaning of this?" a Stark guard outside the tower shouted, drawing his sword as Jaime and a large contingent of armed soldiers appeared.
SHING!
THWACK!
Jaime cut the man down without a word, his own sword a blur of motion. Blood splattered across his golden armor. "Go!" he roared to the men behind him. "Kill the Stark guards! Seize Eddard Stark and his family for conspiring to rebel against the crown!"
At his command, the soldiers surged forward, flooding into the Tower of the Hand with their swords drawn. The Stark guards, caught by surprise, quickly organized a defense, and the tower erupted into a chaos of shouting, steel, and death.
Jory Cassel, captain of Ned's guard, burst into the Hand's solar, his tunic stained with blood. "My lord, it's the Kingslayer! He's brought an army!" he yelled, his voice ragged with panic and pain. "There are too many of them! We can't hold them! Let me get you, the young ladies, and the young master out of here. We have to break out!"
"What?" Ned asked, rising from his desk, the letter to Stannis falling from his hand.
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