"The dragon-whore and the mercenary king are in league!" King Robert's fist crashed into the council table with the force of a thunderclap. Even bloated by wine and soft living, he was still the King, and his roar made the carafes rattle. "It won't be long before she's whelped a litter of bastards, and they'll come across the water to cut our throats!"
"And that fool Viserys," Robert continued, his face a dark purple. "I want them dead. I want them all dead!"
"It is a game between a girl and a sellsword, Robert," Jon Arryn said calmly. The Hand of the King looked his age—his hair was thin and white, and his blue eyes were clouded—but his voice remained steady. "They are not even married yet. You missed the chance for a quiet assassination because you stayed my hand months ago."
"And what of this 'Hammer King'?" Renly asked, leaning back in his chair. He looked dashing in his forest-green silks, his black hair perfectly coiffed. "Where did this shadow-lord come from?"
"He is closer to you than you think, Lord Renly," Varys whispered, rubbing his soft, powdered hands together. The Master of Whispers smelled of lavender and secrets. "A strange connection indeed for a man who has conquered half the Disputed Lands."
"Speak plainly, Varys," Jon Arryn commanded.
"Robert," the Hand said, turning to the King, "the mercenary king... he is your blood. He is the boy from the forge. Gendry."
The room went silent. The memory of the black-haired, blue-eyed boy from Flea Bottom—the one Jon and Stannis had visited in secret—hung in the air like a ghost.
"His build, his ferocity, his eyes... it is all there," Jon Arryn continued. "He disappeared from the city the same week the Wolf Pack began its rise. He is your son, Robert. Born in the year we won the throne."
"A scandal," Littlefinger murmured, a thin smile playing on his lips. "An explosive, magnificent scandal."
"What?" Robert looked dazed. "A son? Gendry? I've had so many... but this one? He's the one who took Myr?"
"Too many coincidences to be anything else," Jon Arryn said. "He is the image of you at seventeen, when we were in the Vale. He is your blood, Robert. And now your blood has joined with the Dragon."
"Seven hells," Robert cursed, his face flushing with a different kind of heat. "He's joined the exiles. He's betrayed the stag for the lizard. He's formed a 'Restoration Alliance' with the Golden Company and the Blackfyre remnants!"
"Enough!" Stannis ground his teeth, the sound like stone on stone. "The bastard's blood has brought us nothing but trouble. We must face the threat. A massive fleet and a Targaryen princess... they will come for Joffrey's throne eventually."
"Kinslaying is a cursed sin," Renly added, though his tone was mocking. "But then again, he's only a bastard. Lust and lies, as they say. They grow faster than legitimate children, and their blood is full of treachery."
"I wish they'd just land and get it over with," Robert muttered, the pride in his voice fighting with his anger. "Let them leave the mess for Joffrey to clean up. But whatever happens... do not tell Cersei. I can't stand her screeching about another bastard, especially one who can actually swing a hammer."
Jon Arryn looked at the King and sighed. He had a secret of his own, whispered to him by Stannis, that made the Gendry revelation even more dangerous. The source of the rot wasn't across the sea; it was inside the Red Keep.
"Do we attack?" Stannis pressed. "I have a fleet, but it needs time to refit. And I cannot lead it myself. I will not be a kinslayer."
"If sacrificing one life saves millions, is it not mercy?" Grand Maester Pycelle asked, his voice shaking with age. He stroked his long white beard. "If the gods are careless and Daenerys Targaryen gives this boy a son—a child of both Baratheon and Targaryen blood—the realm will drown in a sea of fire."
"Mercy," Varys echoed softly. "Yes, the Maester is correct."
"Lords," Petyr Baelish interrupted, his eyes gleaming. "Perhaps words are sharper than swords. I could cross the Narrow Sea myself. I have a silver tongue and a pocket full of promises. Let me see if I can convince this 'lost boy' to hand over the Princess and her brother."
"Hand her over?" Barristan Selmy looked at Littlefinger with disgust.
"For gold, for a lordship, for a name," Littlefinger shrugged. "Let us see what the boy values more—his 'fiancée' or his father's recognition. Renly is right; the boy is a Baratheon. He'll have his price."
Robert looked out the window toward the sea. "I won't acknowledge a traitor," he rumbled. "But if he brings me their heads... well, I am still his father."