Earlier that day, as Stannon fled the ambush on Driftmark...
The bells of King's Landing rang loud, announcing King Robert Baratheon's grand Name Day celebration. The streets were already alive with excitement—banners of House Baratheon fluttered in the wind, golden stags on black cloth standing proud under the clear sky. The air smelled of roasted meats, honeyed fruits, and spiced wine. Nobles and commoners alike joined in the festivities, with musicians playing, jesters performing tricks, and vendors handing out free food, a rare treat that made the smallfolk cheer.
Inside the Red Keep's grand courtyard, tables covered in fine cloths were packed with food—roasted boars dripping with fat, stuffed swans, large wheels of cheese, and casks of Dornish red wine. Servants moved swiftly, making sure no goblet stayed empty.
At the far end of the courtyard, a large stage had been built where bards and performers entertained the guests. Fire-eaters, jesters, and mummers moved through the crowd, earning laughs with their daring tricks and playful mockery of the nobility.
Meanwhile, the tournament grounds were alive with activity. Knights readied themselves for the jousting matches that would take place later in the afternoon. Among the competitors were Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer; Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, dazzling in his silver armor; and Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, whose mere presence filled weaker men with fear.
Yet, the most awaited event was the King's public address. It was rare for Robert Baratheon to speak directly to the people, and this year's celebration was meant to be grander than ever. The King wanted everyone, from lords and ladies to the smallfolk, to witness his rule firsthand.
Inside the grand hall, the nobility feasted, drank, and gossiped, enjoying the lavish midday meal. Queen Cersei, dressed in a shimmering emerald-green gown, sat beside Robert, her expression calm as she sipped her wine. Prince Joffrey looked both bored and annoyed, but a stare from his mother put him in his place.
As the afternoon sun shone high, servants refilled cups and served the final courses of the feast. King Robert, still a warrior in his prime, stood up, his movements powerful and assured. Though he had indulged in wine, his body remained strong and fit—broad-shouldered, muscular, a king who still looked ready for battle. His deep laughter filled the hall as he grinned at the lords and ladies around him.
"Enough of this!" he roared. "I tire of sitting and listening to old men talk! Let the people hear their king!"
The nobles cheered as Robert downed another goblet of wine and strode toward the courtyard, where thousands of commoners had gathered. It was a rare sight—most had only seen their king from afar.
The guards opened the grand doors leading to the balcony. Robert stepped forward, dressed in a fine tunic embroidered with golden stags, a heavy fur cloak draped over his shoulders. His thick black hair was still full, his beard well-kept, his body strong and imposing. He raised his hands, and the crowd fell silent, waiting eagerly.
The air was thick with anticipation. The King was about to speak.
When the murmurs of the people quieted, Robert lowered his hand and began to speak.
"My people," he said in his deep, powerful voice. But then he coughed, clearing his throat. "My voice may sound different today. I have not been feeling well—this damned weather has left me in poor health." He let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "But no sickness will stop me from speaking to my people."
Robert quickly grew serious. He leaned forward against the stone railing.
"I have gathered you here not just for a celebration but to share something important," he said. "Our kingdom has grown richer. We are more prosperous than ever before. And do you know the reason?"
The people listened closely.
"Soap."
A few people in the crowd looked at each other in confusion, thinking he was joking. Others whispered to one another in confusion. Robert held up a hand to silence them.
"Yes, soap," he repeated. "It is what keeps you clean, what keeps sickness away. It is used by nobles and commoners alike. It is no longer just a luxury but something every man, woman, and child needs. And because of it, our kingdom has grown wealthy."
Robert straightened, his voice filled with pride.
"But here is what you do not know—the man behind this great success is none other than my own son."
Gasps of surprise spread through the courtyard. Some nobles inside the hall exchanged glances, clearly shocked. Robert smiled.
"Yes, my son started this great business. He has not been seen at the feasts, nor in the tournaments, because he has been working, ensuring that our lands thrive, that our people live better lives." He turned slightly toward the doors behind him. "And now, I will tell you—"
Before he could finish, Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward and whispered something in his ear. Robert's brow furrowed, but then he grinned.
"Well, it seems I need not speak for him any longer," Robert said. "For he has come to stand before you himself."
Through the opened great doors a figure stepped into the sunlight.
It was Prince Stannon Baratheon.
Dressed in fine clothes, but without the extravagance of the other nobles, he walked forward with calm confidence. His dark eyes met Robert's, and he bowed low as per the formality before taking his place slightly behind him.
Robert turned back to the crowd, his chest swelling with pride.
"This is the man responsible for your prosperity," he said, his voice full of warmth. "This is the—"
He stopped suddenly.
His body jerked, his breath caught in his throat. A deep, wet cough escaped his lips, and then—blood.
A red stain spread across his tunic, growing larger with each heartbeat. Robert staggered, his hands grasping at his chest, his strength fading. Slowly, with pain in his eyes, he turned his head.
Standing behind him, gripping the handle of a dagger buried deep in his chest, was Stannon.
For a long moment, the world stood still.
The crowd gasped in horror. Some screamed. Inside the hall, nobles jumped to their feet. The Kingsguard reached for their swords, but they were too slow.
Robert's knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the cold stone floor.
"Guards!" Ser Barristan Selmy roared, drawing his blade.
But before he could reach the king, armed men—Stannon's men—moved in, blocking his path. The Kingsguard fought fiercely, but the traitors had planned for this moment. Swords clashed, men shouted, and the peaceful celebration turned into a battlefield.
In the chaos, Stannon did not wait.
He turned and ran, slipping away into the confusion while his men fought to delay the king's protectors.
Robert Baratheon, the man who had won the throne through war, the man who had once been unstoppable, lay dying on the ground. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, his eyes staring at the sky above. The bright blue had faded—clouds were rolling in.
His lips parted as if to say something, but no words came.
And then, the King of the Seven Kingdoms took his last breath.
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