Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper

Chapter 16: Long Live the King

Eddard Stark is seen walking down a hallway with his guardsman Tomard. The two had been talking of his findings regarding the parentage of Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon. Eddard suggested they inform Daveth of the decision first, but he was nowhere to be seen. A horn soon blared loud enough for them to hear.

"So, Robert had returned from his hunt," he said.

Yet somehow... something was wrong.

Eddard turned and saw Renly Baratheon running towards him, panting heavily and his green vest spattered in blood.

"Ned!" Renly shouted. "It's Robert. We were hunting... a boar..." he tried to warn, motioning Eddard and Tomard to follow him.

Surprised yet being shocked as he is, Eddard rushes towards Robert's chambers. Inside, he sees Cersei, Daveth, Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen, Barristan Selmy and Grand Maester Pycelle are all present. The Baratheon children stood beside their father; Joffrey held Robert's hand, his eyes watering at the sight. Myrcella and Tommen sniffled and sobbed. Daveth, on the other hand, stood in front of Robert; his face as stoic and unchanged, He had to put on a strong aura; he knew his father was going to die; he had to be strong, not for himself – but for the sake of his younger siblings.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh," Daveth quietly hushed as Myrcella and Tommen turned to embrace their eldest brother to cry quietly. "Easy now," he spoke calmly.

Joffrey looked as if he himself was going to cry, too.

"I should have spent more time with you two, shown you how to be a man," Robert lamented weakly to Daveth and Joffrey, his face was pale as milk. "I was never meant to be a father."

Daveth somehow knew this would eventually happen; his father had returned from the hunt, but was mortally wounded by a boar. Even in Robert's condition, the smell of his wounds filling the room, Daveth swore he could smell a hint of potent wine. Drinking and hunting don't mix, father... You shouldn't have done such a foolish thing.

The king's own steward opened the door; his face might have been carved of stone for so little did it show. "Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King."

"Bring him in," Robert called, thick with agonizing pain.

Servants moved back and forth, feeding logs to the fire and boiling wine. Cersei Lannister sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband. Her hair was tousled, as if from sleep, but there was nothing sleepy in her eyes. They followed Ned as Tomard and Cayn helped him cross the room. He seemed to move very slowly, as if he were still dreaming. The King still wore his boots. Ned could see dried mud and blades of grass clinging to the leather where Robert's feet stuck out beneath the blanket that covered him; a green doublet laid upon the floor, slashed open and discarded, the cloth crusted with red-brown stains. The room smelled of smoke and blood and death.

"Go on," Robert told his children. "You don't want to see this."

Daveth held a crying Myrcella and Tommen; he placed his hand on Joffrey's shoulder, making the young Baratheon look at his older brother. "Come, Joffrey," he spoke.

Joffrey was still visibly upset, but surprisingly did not resist and simply obeyed his brother – the four walking out of the room.

"My fault," Robert said weakly. "Too much wine, missed my thrust."

Eddard walked over to Robert's bedside and lifted the blanket. They had done what they could to close him up, but it was nowhere near enough. The boar must have been a fearsome thing. It had ripped the king from groin to nipple with its tusks. The wine-soaked bandages that Grand Maester Pycelle had applied were already black with blood, and the smell off the wound was hideous. Eddard's stomach turned. He let the blanket fall.