While Winterfell was hosting its betrothal feast, far away—thousands of miles to the south—in King's Landing…
An elderly man sat beneath the weak glow of an oil lamp, leafing through a heavy tome. After a couple of harsh coughs, he suddenly slumped over his desk and began vomiting blood.
"Lord Arryn—what's wrong?!"
The attendant at his side panicked, shouting in helpless terror.
"Someone! Quickly—fetch Grand Maester Pycelle!"
…
The closed door finally opened. Grand Maester Pycelle emerged, his face heavy.
Age spots mottled his bald scalp. A few sparse white strands hung down on either side of his forehead. Around his neck was a maester's chain made of links from twenty-four different metals—each metal representing a different field of knowledge.
Pycelle had served the realm for many years and held the post of Grand Maester on the small council, but deep down his loyalty leaned far more toward Lord Tywin and House Lannister.
"How is old Arryn?" King Robert asked urgently.
This was the same king who'd been sprawled across a woman's belly in some brothel not long ago—until he heard Jon Arryn had fallen ill and rushed over at once.
In all these years, Robert had never truly worried about anything.
This time was the exception.
The Warden of the Seven Kingdoms had a belly as big as his voice. Years of drowning himself in food, drink, and women had doubled his weight beyond saving—so that the slightest exertion left him panting and sweating.
But his presence still carried weight.
Under Robert's tense stare, Pycelle finally sighed and shook his head.
"Your Grace… the gods have not left Lord Arryn… much time."
"You old bastard—what nonsense is that? Old Arryn isn't going to die!" Robert shoved him aside and strode in.
At the bedside—
"Old Arryn… how are you feeling?" Robert's voice came out with a rare edge of grief as he bent close.
"I'm fine." Jon Arryn's voice was frighteningly weak.
"But you—" Robert had never seen anyone worsen so quickly.
Just days ago, Arryn had looked healthy enough to live to a hundred. And now—only a few days later—he was burning out like a fire, as if the flames were consuming his life in real time.
The man Robert respected most.
"Your Grace needn't worry…"
Jon Arryn seemed to sense something. He knew he'd been dragged into some kind of possible conspiracy, yet he stayed calm—because panic wouldn't change anything.
"I'm over seventy. Men like me… we're like dried stalks in a field. When the wind comes, we fall. Sometimes… even without wind, we still fall.
Now… the wind has come."
Looking at the foster son beside him—Robert Baratheon, grown so fat he barely looked human—Arryn wanted more than once to speak the secret aloud.
But in the end, he didn't.
What good would it do?
To rip away the last veil over the Westerlands—Robert's temper would never tolerate being made a cuckold. He would kill Queen Cersei and the three bastard-born children, then march on Casterly Rock itself.
And Lord Tywin Lannister had sharpened his knives for years—he wouldn't simply sit and wait.
If it went wrong, it would be another war on the scale of Robert's Rebellion.
So Jon Arryn stayed silent.
That night, King Robert spoke to him at length about happier days, trying to lift his spirits.
But two days later, Lord Arryn died.
As he died, he whispered four words: "The seed is strong."
Yet King Robert never understood what they meant.
…
"Damn it! These duties—damn them all!"
In the Red Keep's council chamber, King Robert's roaring voice echoed off stone.
A king who hadn't attended a small council meeting in who-knew-how-many years had, today, shown up in person—an extremely rare occurrence.
But he didn't look well.
Now that Lord Arryn, the Hand of the King, was gone, Robert was forced to deal with governance himself. The moment he saw those densely written stacks of parchment, his head started to throb.
"You bastards—why don't you just die?!"
"Why did it have to be old Arryn?!"
"Gods—are you mocking me?!"
"Seven hells—curse the gods!"
…
Robert's thick black beard hid his double chin, but nothing could hide his swollen belly or the dark rings under his eyes.
Once, this king had been tall and terrifying—handsome, unstoppable, a living war-god on the battlefield.
When he wore armor, the antlered helm, and carried his spiked warhammer, no man alive could stand against him.
Now time had turned him into a tragedy.
Under Robert's anger and questions, the small councilors sat stiff and silent, scared to breathe.
"Pycelle—answer me!"
Robert slammed the table with a hand like a bear's paw and pointed at the Grand Maester.
"Why did it have to be old Arryn? How could he die?!"
Pycelle rose awkwardly, mumbling, "M-maybe… maybe Lord Arryn was simply old, Your Grace. When men grow old, their bodies—"
"Then why don't you die?!" Robert bellowed. "You're old too!"
I'm not done living yet… Pycelle thought bitterly—but he didn't dare say it.
When Robert was truly enraged, his authority was not something to test.
"Varys!"
"Your Grace."
The spymaster known as the "Spider" rose at once, his soft flesh quivering as he moved.
"Find out the truth of old Arryn's death."
"That… it may truly be age," Varys said with a mournful face. The known information suggested Arryn's death wasn't normal, but without proof he had no desire to offend anyone.
"You useless sack of nothing!"
"You know nothing!"
"What good are you!"
Robert's spit flew as he raged, spraying Varys full in the face—yet Varys didn't dare lift a hand to wipe it away.
After the outburst, Robert finally cooled down.
He couldn't help feeling that everyone around him was either a liar or a fool—there wasn't a single person who could truly share his burden.
As Robert fell silent, the chamber sank into silence with him.
At length, the master of coin—Littlefinger, Petyr Baelish—broke it:
"Your Grace, Lord Arryn is gone, and the realm's business is piling up like a mountain. The urgent matter is appointing the next Hand of the King."
"That is important," Robert admitted.
His gaze swept slowly across their faces.
"What do you all think?"
Grand Maester Pycelle immediately said, "Your Grace, Lord Tywin, Warden of the West, governs well. He once served as Hand to Aerys II and ruled for over twenty years. Experienced, capable—he is the best choice…"
"Why are you so eager to speak for Tywin?" Robert cut in coldly. "You didn't take Lannister gold, did you?"
"Of course not! I'm not close to Lord Tywin at all—"
Pycelle broke into a cold sweat, rushing to explain he had no ties to House Lannister and was only speaking for the realm.
Under Robert's icy stare, Pycelle's voice got smaller and smaller until he bowed his head and fell silent, shrinking like a frightened hen.
"And the rest of you? Any thoughts?"
"Lord Stannis of Dragonstone, Master of Ships?" someone suggested.
"That man's hard and bitter—he makes everyone miserable. Not suited!" Robert rejected instantly.
Stannis was Robert's second brother. During the rebellion, Stannis had held Storm's End at the cost of everything—an achievement that should have won him eternal honor.
Yet after the war, Robert gave Storm's End to their youngest brother, Renly Baratheon—who'd barely done anything at all—while Stannis was shoved off to bleak, miserable Dragonstone.
Robert's dislike for Stannis was obvious.
"Go on. Who else?"
The councilors exchanged glances.
In the end, Littlefinger rose again.
"Your Grace, the Hand's duty is to assist the king in ruling. It should be the man Your Grace trusts most. Do you already have someone in mind?"
The council, as one, kicked the choice back to Robert: if no one pleased anyone, then pick your own.
Robert fell into thought.
He might have been lazy about rule, but he wasn't stupid. He understood the three major political forces in King's Landing:
His brother Stannis and Jon Arryn had formed the Baratheon–Arryn axis, opposed to Queen Cersei and the Lannister power behind her—Lord Tywin.
Beyond that, Renly Baratheon, backed by the Reach and the "rose" house, also watched power from the shadows.
In this three-legged balance, Robert—the king, the protector of the Seven Kingdoms—had somehow become the loneliest man in the room.
Robert had no taste for politics, and even less patience for untangling the rivalries of great houses.
He only wanted to delegate everything, then spend his days eating, drinking, hunting, and whoring—content.
A lot of people wouldn't believe it, but Robert's greatest dream was to throw away the crown, ride out with his warhammer, sail to the Free Cities, become a sellsword captain, and live on war, danger, wine, and women—the life he actually wanted.
But every time he pictured Joffrey on the throne with Cersei whispering at his side, he crushed the thought.
So what Robert needed was a Hand he could trust completely—someone who would carry the realm so the king could go back to pleasure.
That man had to be close enough to Robert to be trusted, and outside the three factions in King's Landing—someone no one could easily pull into their camp.
And at once, Robert thought of a single name:
There was no choice but Eddard Stark.
-
-
-
-
GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT
🏰🩸 GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT 🩸🏰
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
📢 DARK SECRETS RISE IN THE NORTH! 📢
Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort has 30 chapters ahead available on Patreon! 🐺🩸
Beneath the Dreadfort, old horrors stir.
Power, bloodlines, betrayal, northern cruelty, and buried secrets wait beneath one of the most feared castles in Westeros.
❄️ The North remembers.🏰 The Dreadfort hides.🩸 And some secrets should have stayed buried.
Uncover what lies beneath before anyone else does.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
🛑 ALSO AVAILABLE ON PATREON:
🌃 Cyberpunk: Dogtown Legend🔥 Cyberpunk: The Relentless👩👦 Cyberpunk: Lucy Adopted Me and I Got a System🧠 My Cyberpunk 2077 Simulator🤖 My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew?🛡️ Star Wars: The Rise of Mandalore🌌 Star Wars: Relics of the Past⚡ The Rebirth of Harry Potter🌹 R18: Reincarnated in Her World
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
🔗 Patreon: www.patreon.com/c/MrMagnus👤 Patreon Name: SrMagnus🐦 X / Twitter: https://x.com/SrMagnusBook
⚠️ The novel with the most Power Stones gets more chapters first!
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━