"That harlot's tangled up with the Mercenary King of Myr!" King Robert pounded his fist against the council table, his roar echoing like distant thunder.
Even burdened by his bulk and rough ways, he remained the unchallenged sovereign.
"Soon enough, she'll whelp a pack of bastards, and those spawn will surge across the Narrow Sea to settle scores with us all!
And that spineless Viserys—now hear me plain!
I demand their heads!"
"It's merely a fleeting dalliance between a young maiden and the Mercenary King, Robert—they haven't tied the knot yet!" Jon Arryn countered calmly, his aged frame still vigorous, golden tresses framing keen blue eyes and a sharp, eagle-like profile.
"Am I to linger in endless patience?" the King demanded, frustration boiling over.
"Your veto cost us a prime window for silencing them back then."
"What's the tale behind this Mercenary King?" Lord Renly probed deliberately, his voice smooth as silk.
He cut a striking figure in emerald greens that amplified his dashing charm and effortless poise.
"That Mercenary King ties back to you in unexpected ways, Lord Renly!" Varys murmured silkily, twisting his scented fingers with deliberate flair.
"How curious—me, linked to a warlord beyond the Narrow Sea?"
"Varys, allow me to lay it bare!" Lord Jon interjected firmly.
"Robert, that Mercenary King bears all the marks of your own blood—your bastard, no less!" Lord Jon asserted with unwavering conviction.
"His stature, his shadowed origins, his unyielding drive, his thirst for battle, even the hue of his eyes and locks!"
"A twist of fate, indeed—that when the Mercenary King first stirred the winds of war, a promising lad vanished from a forge in King's Landing.
Gendry, whelp of a tavern maid, raven-haired with piercing blues, a strapping youth brimming with vigor, apprenticed under a shadowy patron of high station!
Until one fateful turn, this boy unearthed a peril too vast and bolted from the city's grasp," Varys recounted with theatrical flair, his words weaving suspense.
Every gaze locked on the King; silence swallowed the chamber whole.
The King's scattered heirs, unearthed after his rise, often met grim ends at Cersei's command.
"A catastrophe! This ignites a powder keg of scandal!"
"What! Have I fathered a son so seasoned? Gendry?" King Robert reeled, momentarily dazed.
The King tallied neither his conquests nor his hidden brood, sparing them no further thought.
"Such alignments defy mere chance, Robert," Lord Jon pressed gently.
"Picture 283 AC, the year fortune crowned us victors."
"He carries your essence, Robert! Back in 279 AC, at seventeen winters, fostered with Eddard in the Vale, you sired your inaugural heir!"
"Could it align so neatly?" King Robert pondered aloud, piecing fragments amid the haze.
Stormlands revels, King's Landing trysts, Vale escapades, Westerlands flings—he'd sown wild oats in every corner, yet dismissed the yields, save for his eldest hidden daughter, Mya.
"Seven Hells! I can't haul this youth across the Narrow Sea to gauge if he's truly my blood," the King's cheeks burned crimson with rising ire.
"Even if fate brands him mine, he's now knotted with the dragonspawn, a betrayer to our house's banner."
"This weaves a tapestry of the damned—my brother's bastard, the Targaryen dregs, and toss in the Golden Company, echoes of Blackfyre's folly; it's a full resurgence of old foes!" Lord Renly chuckled deeply, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"Enough of this!" Stannis barked, his glare pinning Robert with iron resolve.
The King's illicit offspring brewed tempests without mercy.
"We stand against their gathering storm.
As whispers hold, bastards bloom from lust and deceit, outpacing trueborn kin, veins pulsing with recklessness and treachery.
Myr hugs the Narrow Sea's edge, and that armada will one day ferry the dragon's orphans home!"
The Blackfyre uprising loomed as stark warning; House Baratheon now teetered on a bastard's revolt, laced with Targaryen thorns.
"I won't dally until they crash our shores, dumping this mess on Joffrey's lap!" King Robert snarled, veins throbbing.
"And those holdouts from the old guard—who can say how many hunger for the dragon's return!
Oh, and muzzle this from Cersei for now.
Her endless prattle grates; I despise it utterly."
Lord Jon eyed the King's open frustration, words hovering on his lips yet held in check.
Stannis had entrusted him a shadow that haunted sleepless nights.
"Shall we strike them down?" Stannis urged, his words clipped and urgent.
He harbored no rush to marshal fleets; the rot festered in King's Landing, deep in the Red Keep's bowels.
"We command a navy, yet it craves seasoning in drills, and I cannot helm it myself; spilling kin's blood damns the soul!"
Varys's smile bloomed syrupy sweet. "Should one life snuff millions from peril, that solitary flame dims against the greater blaze."
Lord Renly chimed in, "Viserys and his sibling warranted dispatch ages past, yet you heeded Lord Jon, my King."
"But Daenerys, and your own flesh, Robert—mere youths, scarce past sixteen or seventeen summers; this stains the soul!" Lord Jon protested, voice heavy with reluctance.
"We eradicate House Targaryen root and stem!" the King bellowed, unyielding.
"They merit no mercy!" Lord Renly echoed, his tone laced with fervor.
"Alternatives fade to dust!" Varys breathed, almost a sigh.
"What a tragedy, what shadows loom."
Lord Jon stood adrift amid the tide; perhaps summoning Eddard now might shift the current.
"Your Majesty, waging righteous war honors the code.
But slaughtering the young defiles it.
One bears your mark, bastard or no—it taints your hand regardless.
Pardon my candor; I stand with Lord Jon's counsel," Ser Barristan proclaimed, his stance unbowed.
Grand Maester Pycelle hacked and cleared his throat for long minutes, drawing out the tension.
"My order serves the realm's vast chorus, not solely its crowns.
I tended King Aerys with devotion, as I now uphold King Robert, harboring no grudge toward his line's remnants.
Yet ponder this—if strife erupts anew, how many warriors fall in forsaken fields? How many hamlets blaze to ash? How many innocents torn from maternal arms perish on cold steel?" He stroked his flowing white beard, evoking weariness and boundless care.
"If one Daenerys's passing spares a thousand souls from the abyss, would that not prove the path of greater wisdom, perhaps even deeper compassion?"
"Greater compassion," Varys purred approvingly. "Oh, Grand Maester, your wisdom strikes true—nothing rings clearer.
Should the heavens falter and bless Daenerys Targaryen with a son, a lawful fusion of Baratheon vigor and Targaryen fire, rivers of blood would carve the kingdom's heart."
Littlefinger entered last, his voice shifting to a sly, coaxing lilt.
"My lords, perchance tongues outmatch blades in this dance!
Dispatch me across the Narrow Sea with my silver words, and I might sway that wayward youth to yield Daenerys and her kin!"
"Yield Daenerys?" Ser Barristan eyed Littlefinger skeptically.
"With coffers brimming, honors bestowed, ranks elevated—let's test if young Gendry clings still to his path!" Littlefinger coughed delicately.
"You paint with overly broad strokes!" Lord Renly dismissed with a scoff.
"Gendry grips Myr and the Disputed Lands, wields Daenerys's rightful claim, and with the Golden Company's backing, he wields havoc unbound!
What lure tempts such a force? A scrap of soil, a handful of coin?"
"Where intent burns, paths unfold, Lord Renly!
Your kin's heir wanders astray; I'll stir him with charm and bounty!" Littlefinger vowed, conviction gleaming.
"Should my overture falter, then brew toxins and daggers aplenty!
The crux remains: what splendor do we proffer?"
"Gold, strongholds!" Robert's face deepened to scarlet.
"I deny him our bloodline's embrace, nor parley with turncloaks!
Yet through it all, I fathered him!"
## Council Dynamics
The Small Council's chamber thrummed with tension as King Robert's revelation hung heavy. Jon Arryn's steady hand tempered the storm, his aquiline features etched with the weight of counsel . Varys's perfumed twists wove intrigue, while Renly's emerald attire masked sharper ambitions .
Stannis's glare cut through the haze, demanding action amid the brewing crisis . Barristan Selmy's honor stood as a bulwark against moral descent, his vows unyielding .
## Strategic Debates
Debates swirled on naval might and assassination's shadow, echoing Blackfyre's ghosts . Pycelle's weary wisdom painted war's toll, urging calculated mercy over rash blades .
Littlefinger's silver tongue offered diplomacy's gleam, a counter to steel's clamor .
## Royal Legacy
Robert's bastards haunted the throne's underbelly, a scandal threatening Baratheon's fragile peace . The Narrow Sea's ripples threatened to engulf Westeros once more .
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