The fires of war in King's Landing had burned out, but the heavy yoke of power weighed far more than any sword ever could.
Robert Baratheon was like a behemoth trapped in a gilded cage. Every day, he was forced to sit upon that chair of a thousand jagged blades—the Iron Throne—that pricked and bit at him while he endured an endless stream of petitions and disputes from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
Taxes, floods, squabbles between bannermen, friction at the borders... these trivial, redundant matters were like swarms of midges, gnawing incessantly at his warrior's nerves. He often felt like a caged lion, his thick fingers drumming against the armrest of the throne, making a dull, heavy sound as he fought the urge to sweep the stacks of parchment before him onto the floor.
If not for his foster father and newly appointed Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn—who acted like a seasoned beast tamer and a steadfast dam, silently channeling the flow of governance and holding back the worst of the bureaucratic flood—Robert would have lost his patience long ago. He likely would have smashed this fragile, newborn dynasty to pieces before it even had a chance to settle.
The atmosphere at dinner was far from relaxed. Though the long table was laden with fine wines and rich dishes, the clatter of silverware was drowned out by Robert's booming complaints.
Jon Arryn sat opposite him, expressionless. He cut into his steak with the same methodical precision he applied to statecraft, quietly listening to the King's every grievance.
Suddenly, Jon set down his knife and fork. He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin and spoke. His tone seemed casual, yet the question was a precision dagger, piercing through the noise.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice grave. "Have you truly considered why the Red Viper, Oberyn Martell, and especially Euron Greyjoy—a man who could forge a crown from the skulls of a sea of enemies—seemed so deeply deeply disturbed by the deaths of Ariana Whent and her child?"
Robert, who had been in the middle of chugging a flagon of ale, waved his hand impatiently. "How many times do I have to tell you, father? Call me Robert, just like before!" He slammed the tankard down, foam splashing onto the wood. "Why else? Isn't it just that damn southern 'knightly honor' they're always prating on about? Or maybe just soft-hearted womanish pity!"
His tone dripped with disdain for such sentiments, clearly not having given the matter a second thought.
Jon ignored Robert's outburst. He lifted his goblet, his gaze drifting to the middle distance as if recalling a memory. After a long moment, he spoke slowly. "Robert, do you remember the Princess of Dorne?"
"Arianne?" Robert replied gruffly, impatient. "That spicy little thing? What about her?"
"No," Jon shook his head gently, his voice dropping an octave. "I am speaking of Elia."
"Elia?" Robert frowned, digging through his memories. He recalled the journey back to Storm's End and Dorne after the tourney. "What about her?"
Jon set his cup down, releasing a sigh so faint it was almost inaudible. "Elia Martell. Rhaegar's wife."
Robert cleared his throat, correcting him stiffly. "Ex-wife. They divorced a long time ago."
"True," Jon nodded, his eyes growing serious. "But they had a daughter. That girl carries Rhaegar's blood. She is a Targaryen, through and through."
Robert's casual demeanor froze. He sat there, stunned, as if the words had physically struck him. He didn't know how to respond.
Jon didn't retreat. He locked eyes with Robert and threw the sharpest question yet onto the table. "Your Grace, if you truly intend to enforce the iron law of 'rooting out all Targaryens,' then does Elia's daughter—the child with Rhaegar's blood in her veins—belong on that list?"
Robert looked as if he'd been pricked. His voice rose, defensive and annoyed. "I never said... Is that why Oberyn and Euron are so..." He seemed desperate to draw a line between himself and Tywin Lannister's brutality.
Jon pressed on, his voice calm but cold as ice. "Then please, tell me clearly. Do you want her dead? Just as you proclaimed in the throne room, that you would scour the Targaryens from the earth? Just as Tywin treated Ariana Whent and her infant?"
"Do you take me for the Mad King!?" Robert roared, slamming his fist onto the table. Plates rattled and wine spilled. "I would never give such an order! Even for that bastard Ariana Whent bore from the Mad King's rape—I never ordered the child's death! But that old lion Tywin had already done the deed. What was I supposed to do? Stuff the brains back into the smashed skull? Or start a war with the Lannisters over it? As for Elia, she is my friend. We fought against the Mad King's hunters together. And since the Tourney at Harrenhal, she and Rhaegar divorced and cut all ties. The whole realm knows they have nothing to do with each other!"
Jon's gaze remained steady. He spoke the unavoidable truth. "But the girl. By blood, she is still a Targaryen."
Robert opened his mouth, but the arguments died in his throat. He fell silent, only his heavy breathing echoing in the hall. That silence was a heavy answer in itself.
Jon continued to build his logic, steady as a mason laying stone. "Elia is not just Rhaegar's ex-wife. She is the sister of the ruling Prince of Dorne, the sister of the Red Viper, and effectively the Princess of Dorne herself. Your Grace, do you expect a mother to sit idly by while her daughter is butchered? And as for Euron of the Iron Islands... his bond with Princess Elia runs far deeper than outsiders realize."
"Euron? And Elia?" Robert's curiosity flared, mixed with disbelief. "How in the Seven Hells did those two get mixed up..." His mind started to wander down a salacious path, missing the point.
Jon pulled the conversation back to the center. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a mountain. "My point is this: If you insist on a policy of total extermination, the fires of war that have just been extinguished will be reignited by the fury of Dorne and the Iron Islands. And this time," he paused, enunciating every word, "Eddard Stark will not stand with you. And Euron Greyjoy will become your enemy."
"I told you! I won't give that order!" Robert growled like a cornered lion. "What more do you want me to say?!"
Seeing the moment was right, Jon offered the solution. "Then you must immediately send official edicts to every lord in the Seven Kingdoms. Declare plainly that the Usurper's War is over. Proclaim to the world that Elia Martell—who has severed ties with House Targaryen—and her daughter are under the Crown's protection and will suffer no harm for their bloodline. This is necessary to appease Dorne and stabilize the realm."
He paused, then added, "And it is the magnanimity required of a true King."
Robert panted, glaring at Jon. But finally, his tense shoulders slumped. With a look of exhaustion and resignation, he grunted, "It should be so."
Jon began, "As for the wording of the decree..."
Robert waved him off impatiently, disgust for paperwork written all over his face. "You handle the fancy words. You're better at it than a brute like me! Just make the meaning clear so those damn Maesters can't pick it apart."
Jon nodded slightly. The core issue was settled; he just needed the authorization. "Very well. It is decided."
Just as Jon thought the conversation was over, Robert seemed to be pricked by a sharp memory. He looked up, his eyes regaining their dangerous edge, his voice dropping low.
"But let one thing be clear—the mother and son on Dragonstone are not part of my mercy."
Jon seemed to have expected this. He replied calmly, without a ripple of emotion. "Naturally. Queen Rhaella and her posthumous spawn are in a completely different situation than the divorced Elia. They must be treated differently."
Jon continued, "There is one more matter..."
Robert rubbed his temples and sighed, dropping his knife and fork. "Seven Hells! Can a King not even finish a meal in peace?"