In the Throne Hall of the Red Keep, the decor had once featured the skulls of dragons, a grim reminder of the Targaryen dynasty. But after Robert Baratheon ascended the throne, the dragon skulls were replaced with towering banners emblazoned with crowned stags and golden lions, symbols of his new reign.
At the center of the hall loomed the massive, twisted, and grotesque Iron Throne—a relic of conquest and power. In its shadow, lords and ladies gathered, their robes resplendent with embroidered House crests, while the noblewomen flaunted elaborate hairstyles and glittering jewelry.
For some time now, these ladies had taken to carrying bars of soap as tokens of favor, unaware that the inventor of this small luxury was now their enemy. The air was thick with the scent of various incense, giving the hall an aroma reminiscent of a bustling market. Yet, unlike common folk shouting over petty bargains, these nobles spoke with careful intonation, every word measured and deliberate.
Sansa Stark, with her striking maroon hair and vivid green eyes, stood out among the noblewomen. Sitting with the poise of a future queen, she reveled in the attention, playing her role as the "Princess Consort" with perfection.
The ladies around her were eager for any tidbit of information about events Across the Narrow Sea, assuming that as the daughter of the Hand of the King, Sansa would be privy to such secrets. And Sansa, the 'Rose of the North,' was more than happy to indulge their curiosity, weaving together fragments of conversations with Cersei, sprinkled with a touch of her own imagination and speculation.
She was relieved that her father had not allowed Arya to attend the meeting. Her younger sister, with her tomboyish ways and affinity for common folk, was a source of constant embarrassment to Sansa. Arya's presence would have been as unwelcome as that of their bastard brother, Jon.
As Sansa basked in the attention, she suddenly felt a gaze lingering on her from across the room. She looked up to see Petyr Baelish, known to her as "Uncle Petyr," watching her. Her mother, Catelyn, had mentioned him often. Petyr met her gaze with a bland smile before returning to his conversation with the other nobles.
"King Robert of House Baratheon the First, Queen Cersei of House Baratheon, Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King—" The herald's announcement echoed through the hall, bringing it to a hush as everyone straightened up in respect.
After some struggle, Robert had managed to squeeze himself into his armor, which strained against his bulk like a web ready to snap. It was a clear sign that the king was preparing for war. He wore a stag's head crown and had a sword strapped to his waist, striding forward with exaggerated pride. His deerskin boots, thick and broad, seemed like sturdy stakes, making his stride even more lumbering. His girth nearly pushed Cersei out of the way as he passed.
In truth, Robert found the armor unbearably uncomfortable. The cold steel constricted his bloated body, and even the slightest movement left him drenched in sweat. His groin was particularly damp, made worse by the fact that he hadn't quite finished his business with his "Little Robert," which now added to his discomfort.
Beside him, Ned Stark wore a somber black coat, with the golden Hand of the King badge pinned to his chest. His face, ancient and expressionless, seemed to carry the chill of the North, as if he had brought the breath of winter into the hall with him.
A bit further back from Ned stood Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. With his white hair and beard, Barristan was the very embodiment of chivalry, a living legend whose mere presence lent Robert's reign a semblance of legitimacy it sorely needed.
Behind Barristan, the rest of the Kingsguard followed in formation. They were not only the king's personal bodyguards but also seasoned officers capable of leading armies. Among them was Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, his golden hair gleaming beneath his helm. Today, all the Kingsguard were fully armored, the clanking of their steel blending with the sound of trumpets and drums to form a martial symphony—the sound of impending war.
As the procession reached the Iron Throne, Ned and the Kingsguard halted. All eyes were on Robert as he climbed the steps, each one forged from the swords of vanquished foes, and took his seat upon the Iron Throne, a relic tempered by dragonfire.
Joffrey stood nearby, nearly trembling with excitement at the sight, lost in dreams of the day when he too would ascend the throne forged by Aegon the Conqueror. But Joffrey was not the only one in the room who coveted the Iron Throne.
"Long may he reign," intoned Barristan Selmy, his voice carrying the weight of duty.
"Long may he reign," echoed the nobles, though Barristan could sense the lack of conviction in their voices.
Barristan's mind was troubled. He had once petitioned to sail to the Narrow Sea to reason with Viserys, only to be blocked by Varys. He had believed that no matter how formidable Viserys might become, raising an army and reclaiming the throne would be nearly impossible. But now, just over a year later, his worst fears had materialized.
Though neither he nor the Iron Throne had a clear picture of Viserys's strength, the mere fact that the exiled prince had issued such a bold ultimatum meant that a bloody conflict was inevitable. Barristan's loyalty wavered. He had sworn fealty to Robert out of gratitude after the king spared his life and treated his wounds following a battlefield defeat. But now, the thought of drawing his sword against the bloodline of the late king tore at his soul.
"I believe many of you have received a letter from that dragonspawn, haven't you?" Robert's voice boomed through the hall.
The gathered lords and nobles nodded, their expressions betraying hesitation. Just then, the door opened, and in walked Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne. A flicker of displeasure crossed Robert's face at the sight of him.
"Forgive my lateness, Your Grace," Oberyn said with a bow, before making his way to stand beside Ned. As the Prince of Dorne and the Master of Foreign Affairs, Oberyn held a place of prominence among the highest nobility, and he took his place in the front row.
"Red Viper, tell us about the dragonspawn," Robert said, his voice dripping with disdain. The fact that he didn't address Oberyn by his title, position, or even his name, spoke volumes about his mood.
But Oberyn didn't seem to mind. He had received a letter from Viserys shortly after the dragons hatched, and it had taken him by surprise. In just three months, Viserys had defeated the Horselord, united the power of the entire Confederation, and hatched dragon eggs—each of these feats was the stuff of legend.
To accomplish all three in such a short span seemed beyond belief. If anyone had boasted of achieving even one of these feats, Oberyn would have dismissed them as mad.
"Your Grace, these developments have come about rather suddenly, and I am still investigating," Oberyn Martell replied with measured calm.
"Investigating?" Robert's voice turned cold, his anger reverberating through the Throne Hall. "Shouldn't you be involved?"
After the lords of Westeros read Viserys' letter, suspicion toward Dorne had grown intense. The fact that Dorne had participated in the siege of Tyrosh only deepened that mistrust. Not long ago, it was discovered that the exiled Viserys now ruled Tyrosh—a revelation that set the realm on edge.
"Your Grace, I understand your suspicions," Oberyn continued, unfazed by Robert's ire. "But Sunspear cooperated with Lys, Myr, and Pentos. The man we dealt with directly was someone named Griff. I'm as much in the dark about this as you are."
Oberyn's response was composed, almost disarmingly open. Viserys had informed Oberyn of his plans beforehand, giving him the option to leave King's Landing. But the Red Viper had chosen to stay, confident that Robert had no concrete evidence of his secret dealings with Viserys. And even if there were some proof, it wouldn't be enough to sway The Reach or Dorne into Viserys' camp. After all, even the nobles whom Robert had slighted during the rebellion might be secretly reaching out to Viserys.
This was why Robert had taken grim satisfaction in hearing that Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, had slaughtered Rhaegar's children. Viserys, as a Targaryen, had a strong claim to the throne—one that Robert could not easily dismiss.
For now, Robert had to tolerate the situation and asked the gathered lords for their counsel on the looming war.
"Your Grace, we have a formidable fleet—the Dragonstone fleet, the royal fleet, the Westerlands fleet, and the Arbor fleet. Perhaps we can engage Viserys in a grand naval battle!" The suggestion, predictably, came from Renly, his enthusiasm betraying a lack of understanding of the gravity of the situation.
Renly's impulsive suggestion even risked offending Stannis, the true commander of the navy, who was more suited to such strategic discussions.
"Stannis, what do you think?" Robert asked, his tone as cold and hard as ever when addressing his older brother.
"Your Grace, we should begin active preparations for war while simultaneously gathering intelligence on Viserys' true strength," Stannis replied, his lips pursed as he considered the situation.
"Be specific—how do we prepare?" Robert demanded.
Stannis didn't flinch. "We should position our fleet along the Narrow Sea and request the lords to send troops to reinforce us."
Stannis had proven his skill in naval warfare during both the War of the Usurper and the Greyjoy Rebellion. His advice carried weight, particularly in matters of defense and sea battles.
"At the same time," Stannis continued, "we must prevent those who are disloyal from contacting Viserys. Anyone who did not support House Baratheon during the rebellion should be placed under close watch. Their children should be sent to King's Landing as hostages to ensure their loyalty."
No one could find fault with Stannis's proposal. It was a sound strategy for containing potential dissent.
Next, they turned to the matter of military funding.
"Petyr," Robert called.
"Yes, Your Grace?" Littlefinger stepped forward, his demeanor polished.
"I need you to raise two million gold dragons in military funds within a month."
"Yes, Your Grace!" Littlefinger replied without hesitation. He knew this was not a moment to negotiate. His methods of managing the kingdom's finances often involved borrowing, and the Iron Bank had always been optimistic about Robert's rule. Littlefinger saw no issue with securing another loan.
Of course, two million gold dragons wouldn't be nearly enough to fund an entire war. Robert had already sent a request for additional funds to his father-in-law, Tywin Lannister. Despite his dislike for the Lannisters, Robert needed their wealth now more than ever. And since Viserys had specifically named both Robert and Tywin for execution, the Baratheons and Lannisters found themselves as unlikely but necessary allies—closer than Robert had ever imagined, even more so than his bond with Ned Stark.