Song of The Blessed - 10 (Patreon)

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Song of The Blessed

Chapter 10 – A Viper’s Allegiance, A Falcon’s Fall

~ Cersei Lannister ~

The Red Keep was waking up, shaking off the morning mist that clung to Aegon’s High Hill like a lover reluctant to leave. A sign of the upcoming colder weather. But inside the Queen’s solar, the sun was already shining from the perceived perfection of the morning meal.

Cersei sat at the head of the table, a cup of tea in her hand, watching her children.

It was a domestic scene, the kind the bards sang of, yet twisted into something far more exquisite by the recent turns of fate. The room smelled of lemon cakes, bacon, and the heavy, cloying scent of lilacs from the garden, but to Cersei, it smelled of victory.

To her right sat Tommen. Sweet, plump Tommen. In days past, he would have been distracted by a beetle crawling across the tablecloth or asking to play with his kittens. Today, his plate of eggs went untouched, pushed aside for a heavy, leather-bound tome that looked far too large for his small hands.

"The Conquest of Dorne," Cersei read the spine, arching a brow. "A heavy subject for the morning, little lion?"

Tommen looked up, his eyes bright with a determination that only looked cute on his soft face. "Draedon says that a Prince must know the mistakes of the past so he does not repeat them. Daeron I was brave, but he didn't understand the land. Draedon says understanding your opponent and the terrain is just as important as steel."

Cersei smiled, a genuine softening of her lips. "Your brother is wise beyond his years, Tommen. It is good you emulate him."

"I want to be useful to him," Tommen said, turning a page with reverence. "When he is King, he will need a Hand. I want to be smart enough to help him."

Cersei’s heart swelled. It was not the ambition of a usurper, but of a loyal brother.

Perfect.

She turned her gaze to Myrcella. The girl had blossomed. The timid creature who used to hide behind her skirts when Robert shouted was gone. Myrcella sat with her back straight, slicing a pear with elegant precision. She wore a gown of crimson silk, the neckline daringly cut for her age, yet modest, mirroring the fashion of the court ladies who now flocked to Draedon.

"You look lovely today, darling," Cersei murmured.

"Thank you, Mother," Myrcella beamed, her confidence radiating. "I have a lesson with some of the ladies of the court later this day. We shall be practicing making designs for the noble men and women to wear during the colder months. I intend to make all of Draedon’s clothes."

"He will love it," Cersei assured her.

Then, her eyes slid to the left. To Joffrey.

Her eldest son by her lover, her Jamie, sat in sullen silence. He poked at a sausage with his knife, dissecting it with a cruelty that used to worry her, but now just seemed pathetic. Since Draedon’s return, since the miracle of the arena, Joffrey had shrunk. The golden boy who believed the world was his for the taking had realized he was merely a candle standing next to the sun.

He had lost the bluster. He had lost the sadistic sparkle. He looked... defeated.

"Joffrey," Cersei said, her voice cool. "Sit up. A lion does not slouch."

Joffrey straightened slowly, not meeting her eyes. "Yes, Mother."

"Have you nothing to say to your brother and sister?"

"No," Joffrey mumbled. "Tommen is reading a boring book and Myrcella is just... a girl."

There was no venom in it. Just resignation. He knew he would never be King. He knew that even if he somehow miraculously ended up on the throne, he would not hold it for more than a few hours. The realm would not accept a boy when they could have a god.

Cersei took a sip of her wine, savouring the taste.

‘Good,’ she thought. ‘Let him be quiet. Let him be safe in the shadows. Foolishness gets men killed.’

Her mind drifted, unbidden, to the reason for this new order. The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow, making her fingers tighten around the silver goblet until her knuckles turned white.

The Arena. The Tourney.

She closed her eyes and she was back there. The dust. The heat. The roar of the smallfolk.

She saw the Mountain, that hulking beast of muscle and rage. She saw Draedon, her beautiful, divine Draedon, dancing around him with that supernatural grace. And then... the trickery.

She saw the greatsword, six feet of castle-forged steel, plunge through her son's chest.

The sound. That was what haunted her. Not the visual, but the sound. The wet squelch of metal piercing meat and bone.

And the scream.

That scream had been hers. It had ripped from her throat, raw and animalistic, a sound of such pure, distilled agony that it had echoed through the arena, piercing the sound of shock of hundreds of people.

She remembered the feeling of her heart stopping. She remembered the world turning grey, the absolute certainty that her life was over, that the Stranger had come to collect the only thing that truly mattered.

And then... the light. The golden light covering his body. The wound knitting together. The resurrection.

The proclamation of the gods.

Cersei set her goblet down with a tremble she couldn't quite suppress.

‘Never again,’ she vowed, the thought dark and iron-hard in her mind. ‘I will burn this city to ash before I let him come to harm again. I will slaughter every Stark, every Baratheon, every Tyrell if I have to. He is mine. He is the gods' gift to me, vindication for every slight, every tear, every moment of suffering I have endured under Robert's heavy, drunken paws.’

She looked back at her children. Tommen the aspiring scholar. Myrcella the beauty. Joffrey the shadow.

They were safe because Draedon was strong. And Draedon was strong because he was her son.

"Mother?" Myrcella asked, noticing Cersei’s distant look. "Are you well?"

Cersei smoothed her features into a mask of regal calm. "I am perfect, my sweet. I was just thinking... how lucky we are. To be family."

She reached out and stroked Tommen’s hair.

"Finish your breakfast," she commanded gently. "The world waits for us."


~ Oberyn Martell ~

The chambers allocated to the Dornish entourage for the meeting were a riot of silk and skin, a sharp contrast to the austere stone of the Red Keep. The air here was heavy with saffron and sandalwood, masking the stench of King’s Landing.

Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, lounged on a divan, peeling a blood orange with the point of a dagger that would normally be coated in something fatal. But his eyes, dark and sharp as obsidian, were fixed on the man lounged in the centre of the room.

Prince Draedon Baratheon.

To look at him was to understand why the realm was in an uproar. The man didn't just occupy space; he commanded it. He stood tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black doublet stitched with gold thread, the colours of House Baratheon, but worn with a grace that was entirely his own.

Around him, the Vipers of Dorne were coiled, testing the air.

Ellaria Sand sat by Oberyn’s side, her hand on his knee, her eyes devouring the Prince. Obara paced near the window, a spear in hand, eyeing Draedon’s stance, looking for weakness and finding none. Tyene sat on the floor, mixing herbs in a mortar, looking like a sweet, innocent maid, though everyone in the room knew she was the most dangerous of them all. Nymeria sat on the edge of a table, legs crossed, playing with a dagger. But it was Arianne, the heiress to Dorne, who was on the offensive.

She circled Draedon slowly, her hips swaying with a hypnotic rhythm, the sheer silk of her gown leaving very little to the imagination. She stopped in front of him, close enough that he would be able to smell the perfume on her skin.

"They say you are a god, my Prince," Arianne purred, her voice like warm honey. She reached out, trailing a finger down the front of his doublet. "We have gods in Dorne as well. But none of them look quite like you."

Draedon didn't flinch. He didn't step back. He looked down at her, his blue eyes amused, yet distant, like a mountain looking at a shifting dune.

"And they say the women of Dorne are dangerous," Draedon replied, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. "I see the rumours are understated."

"Danger is the spice of life," Arianne whispered, leaning in. "Are you afraid of a little spice, Your Grace?"

"I have tasted death, Princess," Draedon said calmly. "Spice holds no terror for me."

Oberyn chuckled, slicing a segment of orange and popping it into his mouth. "Leave him be, niece. If you exhaust him before we talk business, your father will have my head."

Arianne pouted playfully but stepped back, though her eyes remained locked on Draedon’s, promising pleasures that would make a Septa blush.

Oberyn stood up, wiping the juice from his hands on a silk cloth. He walked toward Draedon, his movement fluid, predatory.

"Prince Draedon," Oberyn said, his voice losing its teasing lilt and becoming serious. "We have danced around each other since my arrival. But today, I wish to speak plainly."

"I prefer plain speaking," Draedon said. "It saves time."

"Good." Oberyn gestured to the table where a flagon of Dornish Red sat. "We brought gifts. Gems, clothes, the usual tributes. But this..." He picked up the flagon. "This is from my private vintage. And my gratitude, Prince, is deeper than any vintage."

Oberyn poured two cups. He handed one to Draedon.

"Gregor Clegane," Oberyn said the name like a curse. "The Mountain. For twenty years, his existence was an insult to my House. A stain on my sister's memory. I came here to kill him. I came here to hear him confess before I sent him to the hells."

Oberyn’s eyes hardened. "You robbed me of the confession, Draedon. But you gave me his death. And for that... Oberyn Martell shall forever be in your debt."

Draedon took the cup. He held Oberyn’s gaze, and for a moment, the Viper felt a chill run down his spine. It wasn't fear, but the recognition of power.

"It never sat right with me," Draedon said softly. "What happened to Elia. To Rhaenys. To Aegon."

The room went silent. Even Obara stopped pacing. To hear a Baratheon, the son of the man who had celebrated their deaths, the grandson of the man who had orchestrated the entire ordeal, speak those names with such compassion was... disarming.

"My father is a great warrior," Draedon continued, swirling the wine. "But he turned a blind eye to the butchery committed in his name. It was not victory. It was a war crime."

Oberyn gripped his own cup tightly. "Yes. It was."

"I cannot change the past," Draedon said. "But I could remove the monster who did the deed. Clegane was a rabid dog whose existence caused more harm than good for my house and our reputation. I put him down. It was not politics, Prince Oberyn. It was justice."

Oberyn stared at the young man. He saw no deception in those blue eyes. He saw only a terrifying, absolute conviction.

"Justice," Oberyn repeated, tasting the word. "A rare commodity in King’s Landing."

"I intend to make it common," Draedon said.

"Then you are a fool or a revolutionary," Oberyn grinned, raising his cup. "To Elia."

Draedon raised his glass in accordance.

They drank. The wine was rich, dark, and heavy.

"My daughters," Oberyn said, gesturing around the room as he lowered his cup. "And my niece. They are curious creatures. They wanted to see the man who killed the Mountain single-handedly."

"And resurrected himself," Tyene piped up from the floor, her voice sweet and airy. "Don't forget that part, father. That is the best part."

"Indeed," Oberyn mused. "Tell me, Draedon. How does it feel? To die?"

Draedon looked at the Sand Snakes. Obara was glaring, challenging him. Nymeria was studying him like a puzzle. Tyene was looking at him like a new toy. Arianne was looking at him like a meal.

"Cold," Draedon said simply. "And then... fire."

He stepped forward, breaking the distance Oberyn had set, moving into the circle of Dornish women. He looked at Obara.

"You wield that spear like a limb," he noted. "But you hold it too tight. Tension slows the strike."

Obara bristled. "I could have the tip in your throat before you blinked, princeling."

Draedon smiled, a slow, dangerous smile. "You could try."

He turned to Arianne. The Princess of Dorne stepped closer again, unable to resist the gravitational pull he exerted.

"We have heard that you are... restless, Your Grace," Arianne whispered. "That the women of the Crownlands are too stiff. Too cold. Dorne is warm. And we are very... accommodating to our friends."

She ran a hand down his arm, feeling the muscle beneath the velvet.

"I have heard," Draedon said, his voice dropping an octave, "that the Dornish bite."

"Only if you ask nicely," Arianne smirked.

Oberyn laughed, a bark of genuine amusement. "Careful, Draedon. They will eat you alive. And I don't think your resurrection trick works twice."

"Unfortunately for them, they have never dealt with a Baratheon before," Draedon said, his eyes flashing.

Oberyn watched them. He saw the way Arianne looked at the Prince—it wasn't just lust. It was calculation. Arianne wanted to be Queen. And if this boy was the future...

‘He is strong,’ Oberyn thought. ‘He acknowledges the crimes committed by his family in the past. He killed the Mountain. He has the people's love.’

"Dorne stands with you, Draedon," Oberyn said suddenly, cutting through the flirtation.

Draedon turned back to him.

"My brother Doran is a cautious man," Oberyn said. "He watches the grass grow. But I am not my brother. You gave us justice. We will give you spears. If the need arises."

Draedon nodded solemnly. "The need always arises, Prince Oberyn. The Starks say, ‘Winter is coming’. And with it, shadows of all kinds."

"Let them come," Oberyn grinned, his teeth white and sharp. "Vipers hunt well in the dark."


~ Robert Baratheon ~

The King’s Solar was dim, lit only by the dying embers of the hearth and a few flickering candles. It smelled of stale wine and old regrets.

Robert Baratheon sat in his heavy oak chair, a goblet in his hand, staring into the fire. He looked old. Worn down, like a cliff face eroded by a relentless sea. The fat clung to him, a testament to his vices, even though it had lessened since the day he walked back into the yard for training again.

Across from him sat Jon Arryn.

The Hand of the King looked frail. His shoulders were hunched, his hair thinned to a few wisps of white. The burden of ruling the Seven Kingdoms while Robert drank and whored had hollowed him out.

"It’s too much, Jon," Robert grumbled, his voice thick with wine and melancholy. "It’s all just... too damn much."

"The realm is at peace, Your Grace," Jon said gently, though his voice rasped. "The harvest was good. The tourney was a success, despite... the scare."

"The scare," Robert snorted. He took a heavy swig of wine. "I watched my son die, Jon. I watched him die and come back. And when he stood up... when he looked at me..."

Robert shuddered. "I saw a King. A real King. Not this... this mummer's farce that I am."

"You are the King, Robert," Jon insisted, though he sounded tired. "You won the throne."

"I won a war!" Robert slammed his fist on the table, making the wine jump. "I was made for killing, Jon. Not for counting coppers and listening to squabbling lords. I hate it. I hate every moment of it. I hate the chair. I hate the plots."

He leaned forward, his blue eyes watery and desperate.

"I want to be done, Jon. I want to go back to just fighting and fucking. I want to hunt. I want to drink until I forget Lyanna’s face. I want to leave it all to him."

Jon Arryn froze. "To... Draedon?"

"Who else?" Robert spread his hands. "Look at him! He’s everything I was, and everything I wasn't. He’s strong, but he’s not a brute. He’s smart. The people worship him, Jon. They think he’s a god. Maybe he is. Seven Hells, maybe he is."

"Robert," Jon cautioned, "Abdication... it is not done. The precedents are dangerous."

"Bugger the precedents!" Robert roared. "I’m the King! I make the precedent! If I say he rules, he rules!"

He slumped back, the energy leaving him as quickly as it had come.

"He’s better than me, Jon. He’s better than Aerys, that cruel fucker. He’s better than Renly and Stannis. He’s the King the realm deserves."

Robert stared into his cup. "I’ve failed at everything, Jon. I failed Lyanna. I failed my brothers. But I made him. That’s the one good thing I did. I made a King."

Jon Arryn sat in silence for a long moment. His mind was racing. He thought of the black hair, the blue eyes. The seed is strong. Draedon was Robert’s. There was no doubt. The others... the golden-haired products of infidelity...

If Robert abdicated now, if Draedon took the throne... the Lannister influence would be broken. Draedon was his own man. He would not be Tywin’s puppet.

It was a solution. A way out of the trap Jon had discovered.

"Perhaps..." Jon started, his voice thoughtful. "Perhaps you are right, Robert. The boy has... a presence. The realm would rally to him."

Robert looked up, hope dawning on his ravaged face. "You think so? You’ll help me? We can draw up the papers? Tomorrow?"

"We can discuss it," Jon nodded. "We must be careful. The noble houses..."

Jon stopped mid-sentence.

He frowned, bringing a hand to his throat. A sudden, dry tickle had started at the back of his palate. He coughed, a polite clearing of the throat.

"Jon?" Robert asked.

The tickle became a fire.

Jon coughed again, harder this time. It felt as though he had swallowed a coal. His stomach cramped, a violent, twisting knot that made him double over.

"Jon!" Robert stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor.

"Water," Jon rasped, clutching at his collar. "Water..."

He grabbed for the pitcher on the table, but his hands were suddenly clumsy, numb. He knocked the pitcher over. Water spilled across the table, soaking the documents, dripping onto the floor like tears.

"Guards!" Robert bellowed, his voice shaking the walls. "Guards! Help him!"

Jon fell from his chair. He hit the rushes on his knees, heaving. The fire was in his blood now. His veins felt like they were filled with molten lead.

He looked up at Robert. The King’s face was a mask of panic.

"Robert," Jon wheezed. He tried to speak. He tried to say 'The seed is strong.' He tried to say 'Cersei.' He tried to say 'Lysa.'

But all that came out was a wet, gurgling cough.

Blood splattered onto the rushes. Bright, red, arterial blood.

The doors burst open. Ser Barristan Selmy and Meryn Trant rushed in, swords drawn, but there was no enemy to fight. There was only an old man dying on the floor.

Jon Arryn’s eyes widened in shock. He couldn't breathe. His throat was closing up. The room was spinning. The darkness was rushing in at the edges of his vision.

"Grand Maester!" Robert was screaming now, dropping to his knees beside his oldest friend. He grabbed Jon by the shoulders. "Get Pycelle! Someone go and get Pycelle! Damn you all, move!"

Jon looked at Robert one last time. He saw the fear in the King’s eyes. The boy he had raised. The son he had chosen.

‘I’m sorry, Robert,’ Jon thought as the pain consumed him. ‘I’m leaving you alone with the lions.’

"Jon!" Robert shook him. "Jon, don't you die on me! I command you! Don't you dare die!"

Author's Notes

Almost there. Canon will begin in the next chapter or two. Leave your thoughts down below.

See you soon.