"That whore is tangled up with the sellsword leader from Myr!" King Robert brought his fist crashing down on the council table, the sound like thunder. Fat and coarse though he had become, he was still the king. "Before long she'll be whelping a pack of bastards who'll cross the Narrow Sea to take their vengeance on us! And that fool Viserys. Let me make this plain. I want them dead!"
"It is nothing more than a girl's flirtation with a sellsword leader, Robert. They are not yet married," said Jon Arryn, old but still vigorous, blond hair and blue eyes beneath his hooked nose.
"Am I meant to sit and wait?" the king demanded. "Last time, it was you who stopped me. I missed the perfect chance to have them killed."
"And what do we know of this sellsword leader?" Renly asked lightly. Dressed all in green, he looked every inch the charming lord.
"That sellsword king does, in fact, share a bit of kinship with you, Lord Renly," Varys said softly, wringing his perfumed hands.
Renly arched a brow. "Now that is curious. What would I have to do with some sellsword across the Narrow Sea?"
"Varys, I will speak plainly," said Great Lord Jon.
"Robert, that sellsword leader is most likely your bastard," Great Lord Jon said firmly. "His build. His past. His temper. His love of battle. And those eyes and hair."
"What a coincidence," Varys added in his smooth voice. "Just as this sellsword king rose to prominence, a blacksmith's apprentice vanished from King's Landing. Gendry. The son of a tavern girl. Black hair, blue eyes, a handsome, strong lad. Sent to apprentice by a great lord. Then one day, perhaps he learned some dangerous secret… and fled the capital."
All eyes turned to the king. The chamber fell silent.
After Robert took the throne, any of his bastards discovered by Cersei tended to disappear.
"A scandal," someone muttered. "A scandal that would shake the realm."
"I have a son that age?" Robert blinked. "Gendry?"
He could not recall how many women he had bedded, nor how many bastards he had sired. He had never troubled himself over such things.
"Too many coincidences cease to be coincidence, Robert," Great Lord Jon said quietly. "It would have been in 283. The year we won the war."
"Or earlier," he continued. "In 279, when you were seventeen and living in the Vale with Eddard. That was when you fathered your first child."
Robert frowned, trying to piece it together. The Stormlands. King's Landing. The Vale. The Westerlands. He had left seed everywhere, yet paid no mind to the children born of it, save perhaps his first bastard daughter, Mya.
"Seven hells," Robert muttered, face reddening. "I can hardly drag the boy back across the Narrow Sea to see if he's mine. And even if he is, he's thrown in with the dragon's spawn. That makes him a traitor to House Baratheon."
Renly laughed. "How deliciously strange. My brother's bastard, the last of the Targaryen brood, and perhaps the Golden Company besides. A proper league of restorationists."
"Enough," Stannis said sharply, fixing Robert with a hard stare. The king's bastard had become a danger. "We must face the threat for what it is. Bastards are born of lust and lies. They grow fast, and their blood runs hot with rebellion. Myr lies just across the sea. That fleet will return sooner or later, bearing the last of the Targaryens."
The memory of the Blackfyre Rebellions lingered. A bastard uprising had nearly torn the realm apart once. Now House Baratheon might face its own, tangled together with the remnants of House Targaryen.
"I will not wait for them to land and leave this mess to Joff," Robert growled. "And the old loyalists—who knows how many still pray for the dragon's return? Keep this from Cersei for now. I have no desire to hear that foolish woman squawk about it."
Great Lord Jon looked at the king, words caught in his throat. Stannis had already confided a secret to him that robbed him of sleep.
"Shall we strike first?" Stannis pressed. In truth, he had no wish to sail. The heart of the rot lay in King's Landing, within the Red Keep itself. "We have a fleet, yes, but it would take time to prepare. And I cannot lead such an attack. Kinslaying is a grievous sin."
Varys smiled faintly. "If the death of one man can spare thousands, then the life of one man weighs very little beside that of the many."
Renly added lightly, "Viserys and his sister should have been killed long ago. But you listened to Lord Jon, brother."
"Daenerys," Lord Jon said firmly, "and Robert's child as well, are still children. She may not even be sixteen. This would be unethical."
"We should have wiped out every Targaryen," Robert roared.
"They deserve no less," Renly agreed.
"We have no choice," Varys murmured. "A pity. A true pity."
Great Lord Jon felt alone at the table.
Perhaps it was time to send for Eddard.
"Your Grace, to meet an enemy in open battle is honorable. But to murder children is not. And one of them is your son. Even if he is a bastard, the stain would remain. Forgive me, but I stand with Great Lord Jon," Ser Barristan declared.
Grand Maester Pycelle spent a long while clearing his throat before speaking.
"Our order exists for the good of the realm, not merely for the one who sits the throne. I served King Aerys faithfully, just as I now serve King Robert. I bear no personal malice toward his daughter. But I ask you this—if war breaks out again, how many soldiers will die in the fields? How many villages will burn? How many children will be torn from their mothers' arms and cut down by spears?"
He stroked his long white beard, looking exhausted, heavy with concern.
"If the death of one Daenerys could spare tens of thousands, would that not be the wiser course? Perhaps even the more merciful one?"
"More merciful," Varys echoed softly. "Oh, Grand Maester, how beautifully put. Indeed, should the gods grant Daenerys Targaryen a son—a trueborn child carrying both Baratheon and Targaryen blood—then the realm would surely drown in blood."
Littlefinger spoke last, his tone turning smooth and thoughtful.
"My lords, perhaps words may succeed where swords would fail. Allow me to carry my silver tongue across the Narrow Sea. With the proper persuasion, perhaps that misguided young man might be convinced to hand over Daenerys and her brother."
"Hand over Daenerys?" Ser Barristan frowned at him.
"With gold. With rewards. With titles," Littlefinger replied lightly. "We might discover whether this fine young Gendry still wishes to return."
"You make it sound far too simple," Great Lord Renly scoffed. "Gendry holds Myr and the Disputed Lands. He holds Daenerys and her claim. And if he wins the support of the Golden Company as well? He would have more than enough strength to trouble us. What would you offer him? A scrap of land? A chest of gold?"
"All things are possible, Lord Renly," Littlefinger said calmly. "Your good nephew may simply be misled. A few smiles, a few generous gifts, and perhaps he will remember where he belongs. If that fails, there is always poison… or a dagger in the dark. The question is what gift we present first."
"Gold. A castle," Robert said, face flushed. "But I will not name him to the royal house, and I will not bargain with a traitor. No matter what he is, I am still his father."