Chapter 29: New King
The bells of King's Landing rang out across the city as Robert Baratheon rode through the streets toward the Red Keep, their bronze voices declaring to all who would listen that the realm had a new king. Banners bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon flew from every tower and gatehouse, snapping in the autumn wind like victory made manifest.
The smallfolk lined the streets to catch a glimpse of their new ruler—the Demon of the Trident, the man who had crushed Prince Rhaegar with his great warhammer and ended the Targaryen dynasty. They cheered because they were expected to, but there was genuine relief in their voices. Anyone was better than the Mad King who had burned lords alive and talked of roasting the entire city in wildfire.
Robert and Jon Arryn had been impressed by what they found in the capital. The Northern lords had restored order with swift efficiency, the streets were clear of bodies, and the smallfolk moved about their business without the constant fear that had marked Aerys's final years.
Now, days later, the formal ceremony was complete. Robert wore the crown of Aegon the Conqueror, and the time had come for the great lords to bend the knee.
The throne room had been cleansed and decorated for the occasion, though dark stains still marked the stones where King Aerys had died. The Iron Throne loomed over everything, its thousand blades gleaming in the torchlight, and Robert sat upon it with obvious discomfort.
"Let all who would swear fealty to Robert, First of His Name, come forward," the herald announced.
Jon Arryn approached first, his aged knees creaking as he knelt. "I, Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, swear to be your man, to hold faith and truth, to love all that you love and shun all that you shun, in life and death."
The Vale lords followed their liege's example, each man taking the ancient oath in turn. When they finished, Robert formally named Jon Arryn as his Hand, the golden pin gleaming as it was fastened to the older man's doublet.
Then came the North.
Eddard Stark walked forward with measured steps, Ice hanging at his side, and dropped to one knee before the Iron Throne. "I, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, swear by the old gods to be your man, to hold faith and truth, to love all that you love and shun all that you shun, in life and death."
But as Eddard rose, only some of the Northern lords stepped forward to follow his lead. Lord Manderly knelt, as did Lord Dustin and several others, but many remained standing. The absence was conspicuous, and murmurs began to ripple through the assembled lords.
Jon Arryn's weathered brow furrowed with concern. "Why do not all the Northern lords bend the knee and swear their oaths?"
Eddard sighed heavily, the sound carrying years of frustration with southern expectations. "My lord Hand, the North has its own customs. The mountain clans have never bent the knee to anyone, not even the Lords of Winterfell. Neither have the lords of Skagos."
"And what of the others?" Jon Arryn pressed, his eyes moving to where Jeor Mormont stood straight and unbending.
The Lord of Bear Island's gruff voice carried clearly. "We Mormonts kneel to none save the Starks of Winterfell. Have done for a thousand years, will do for a thousand more."
The murmurs grew louder now, and Eddard could hear whispers of "northern arrogance" and "disrespect to His Grace" from the southern lords. Jon Arryn's gaze shifted to Artos Stark, who stood with his hand resting on his sword hilt.
"And you, Lord Artos?"
"I bend the knee to no one but the Starks of Winterfell," Artos replied, his voice carrying the certainty of winter itself.
The throne room erupted in angry voices. Lords pointed and gestured, their words blending into accusations of disloyalty and challenges to royal authority.
Tywin Lannister's voice cut through the chaos like a blade through silk. "This is preposterous. We speak of the King of the Seven Kingdoms, yet some refuse to show proper respect. This challenges His Grace's very legitimacy. This is not some child's game, boy."
Artos turned to face the Lord of Casterly Rock, his young face hardening. "The North has bled and died for this cause, old man, unlike those who waited to see which way the wind blew before declaring their loyalty."
Shocked silence greeted this insult to the mighty Tywin Lannister. The lord's green eyes flashed with cold fury.
"This is not a jesting matter," Tywin said, his voice soft and deadly. "Bend the knee now. This kingdom has no place for your petulant mood swings."
"Why don't you try to make me, old man?" Artos shot back, his hand shifting to his sword's grip.
The threat electrified the throne room. Hands moved to weapons, and Robert's voice boomed out over the rising tension.
"Enough! Stand down, all of you!"
Jon Arryn stepped forward quickly, recognizing the danger. "Your Grace, the Northmen have sworn fealty through their liege lord, who has proven his loyalty beyond question. Perhaps we can respect their ancient customs, as they have respected the crown's authority. The North has bled most for this victory and secured your capital."
Robert considered this, then nodded slowly. "The North has proven its faith with blood and steel. The matter is closed."
The tension eased, though many lords continued muttering. The ceremony proceeded with Ser Brynden Tully kneeling for his brother, then the few Stormlanders taking their oaths.
Finally came the Lannisters.
Tywin approached the throne with perfect dignity, his golden hair catching the torchlight. He knelt with practiced grace. "I, Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, swear by the Seven to be your man..."
His bannermen followed suit, their armor gleaming, their oaths properly spoken. But as the formal words concluded, Tywin rose with a thin smile.
"Your Grace, House Lannister brings you a gift to celebrate your coronation and ensure the security of your dynasty."
Eddard felt ice form in his stomach as Lannister guards entered bearing bundles wrapped in crimson cloth—the red of House Lannister. The bundles were roughly human-sized, one large and two terribly small.
"the last of the dragon's line," Tywin announced.
The crimson cloths were pulled away, revealing three bodies on the cold stone floor. Princess Elia Martell lay in the center, her Dornish beauty marred by bruises and worse. Beside her were her children—little Rhaenys, barely past her third nameday, her small body pierced by countless sword wounds, and baby Aegon, not yet two, his skull crushed until his face was unrecognizable.
The throne room fell into horrified silence. Even battle-hardened knights turned away from the sight.
"What in the seven hells is this?" Eddard demanded, his voice shaking with rage. "You've butchered an innocent woman and her babes!"
"A necessary measure," Tywin replied calmly. "To ensure His Grace's reign remains secure, without future pretenders."
Robert leaned forward on the Iron Throne, studying the small corpses with cold blue eyes. "Dragonspawn," he said simply. "They were dragonspawn, Ned. Nothing more."
The words hit Eddard like a physical blow. "They were children! Innocent babes with no part in their father's crimes! Where is the honor in this slaughter?"
"Dragon spawn they were, and dragon spawn they died," Robert snapped, his face flushing with anger. "I'll hear no more of it!"
"This is murder," Eddard said, stepping forward. "Plain and simple murder, and I will not—"
"The deaths were... regrettably brutal," Jon Arryn interjected, his own face pale. "Perhaps a cleaner end might have sufficed."
Artos Stark's voice rang out like a bell. "A cleaner death? Regrettably brutal?" His dark eyes fixed on the Hand with withering contempt. "Where is your precious honor now, Lord Arryn? What happened to 'As High as Honor'? Is this your nobility—standing silent while babes are butchered like sheep?"
The accusation struck home, and Jon Arryn's face flushed with shame.
"The men who did this should face the king's justice," Eddard declared. "Death, at the very least, for the murder of innocents."
"Those are my men," Tywin replied coldly. "I will not see them punished for serving the crown."
"Enough!" Robert roared. "The matter is closed! No harm comes to Lord Tywin's men, and that is final!"
Artos laughed, but the sound held no mirth. "Is this our great king? The Demon of the Trident, cowering before a babe who couldn't even speak?" His gaze shifted to Tywin. "And you, mighty lion—is this all your house can manage? Murdering children and defenseless women?"
Both Robert and Tywin bristled at the insults.
"Hold your tongue, boy," Robert warned. "Ned's brother or not, you go too far."
"I have endured quite enough of your insolence," Tywin said, his voice deadly quiet. "You have insulted my house, threatened my son, and now this. I will have your head for it."
The threat hung in the air like lightning before a storm. Throughout the throne room, Lannister knights prepared to draw steel.
But Northern blades rang from their sheaths first, two dozen swords gleaming in the torchlight.
"I dare you to touch my brother," Eddard snarled, his hand on Ice's grip. "The last man who harmed a Stark didn't live to boast of it."
Artos is angry at the threat but also confused wasn't he the one who is bullhead and wolf blood and Ned the responsible one.
The throne room had become a powder keg. Golden lions faced silver wolves across blood-stained stones, while the new king sat powerless on his iron throne.
"Put up your swords!" Robert commanded. "All of you! This is my court, not a battlefield!"
"Please," Jon Arryn added desperately. "We are allies, not enemies. Lord Eddard, I beg you—"
Eddard looked at his foster father for a long moment, seeing the plea in those tired eyes. Finally, he nodded. "Sheath your steel. For now."
Reluctantly, the Northern blades disappeared. Jon Arryn turned to Tywin with the same pleading expression.
"Lord Tywin, please."
After a tense heartbeat, Tywin gestured, and his men stood down as well. But the damage was done. The new reign had begun with innocent blood, and everyone in that throne room knew that some wounds would never heal.
The coronation feast would follow, wine would flow, and lords would make merry. But the bodies of Elia Martell and her children would lie between them all, a reminder of the price of crowns and the cost of victory.
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