The fragrance lingered on his tongue, refusing to dissipate.
Joffrey rinsed his mouth with wine again and again, but the delightful, sweet taste seemed to penetrate his very soul, rich and intense.
Yet, he would have preferred to taste sourness and bitterness.
As far as he knew, people shouldn't eat people, at least not in the physical sense.
It was all the lizard-lion's fault; such a creature shouldn't even possess a sense of taste.
The feeling was too bizarre.
He had never imagined that his final impression of the king would be so delicious, so temptingly decadent.
It was almost like devouring the personification of power from Robert's body, both real and surreal.
Power had a flavor.
Perhaps it was due to this association that he couldn't control the lizard-lion from indulging itself, could only watch as it tore apart the king's body with savage abandon.
The king's death was irreversible.
From that moment on, Joffrey knew with cold certainty that he had crossed a threshold.
No matter how events unfolded hereafter, he, who now stepped onto the stage, had lost any chance of retreat.
Once the crown was on, there would be no peaceful way to take it off.
King, ah.
"King Robert, the First of His Name, of House Baratheon, is dead. May he rest in peace."
Everyone, from Queen Cersei downward, wore expressions of grief. Many servants who had loved and respected the king wept openly, their cries echoing through the inn.
The king's body lay covered with a golden banner, dark crimson patches of blood seeping through from various places.
Without question, the king had not passed peacefully.
Eddard Stark stared blankly, feeling as though he walked through a waking nightmare.
Just an ordinary day.
Moments ago, Robert had been boasting of his strength, his laughter echoing throughout the forest. Then he had encountered such a monster and met this savage end.
Surely this was some cruel dream?
Lizard-lions had appeared in the Riverlands, stronger and larger than any ever recorded.
Eddard instantly recognized the danger.
He had tried desperately to protect his friend, but that damned boar had blocked him for a few heartbeats.
Only a few heartbeats, but they had made the difference between life and death.
By the time Eddard and half the guardsmen had leapt over the bloody, mangled boar and rushed toward the king, all the soldiers who had been with Robert lay dead upon the ground. The king's body was being tossed about in the monster's elongated jaws, blood and flesh dripping continuously.
It was at this moment that Ser Barristan and the other knights finally appeared behind them, but far too late.
The Ruby Ford, the place where Rhaegar had fallen, had become Robert's burial ground as well.
Was this some jest played upon the world by the gods above? Or punishment for the usurper?
A heavy, cold piece of steel seemed to press down upon Eddard's heart, making him almost unable to grip his sword hilt. The fire of revenge became his last and only motivation.
He led the charge against the lizard-lion.
The ferocious beast, sensing danger, immediately dropped Robert's broken body and scurried toward the river with a swish of its powerful tail. Yet its retreat was far slower than its initial assault had been.
Eddard quickly overtook it, his longsword cutting a gleaming arc that slowed the lizard-lion's escape.
Barristan, Jaime, and the other knights quickly joined the fray.
More soldiers tacitly surrounded the king-slaying monster. The area of combat was not large; if they all rushed in, they would only hamper one another.
Ordinary men-at-arms suddenly became spectators to the deadly dance.
The monster continued to roar while the king's body lay quietly on the beach, the sight violently impacting men's minds and brutally stuffing the truth into their heads.
A beast had killed the king!
Who could have imagined such a thing?
They began to believe those absurd plots from ancient legends and children's tales.
The battle proceeded with surprising smoothness.
The enraged knights displayed their greatest skills.
The monster had completely reverted to a beast with only instinct, senselessly wasting its strength.
It was easily lured by the longswords used as bait, snapping left and right, charging forward, and sweeping its tail backward. Yet the only thing it could touch was the sharp edge of the blades.
Deadly threats came from all directions, and it dared not focus on attacking any one enemy. It could only crawl back and forth within the small circle, wary of everything.
It tried to summon that otherworldly power within its body, but there was no response at all, as if it had never existed.
Apart from its abnormal size, it now differed little from ordinary lizard-lions in the Neck. Its speed had grown slower, its reactions more sluggish.
Suddenly, it shook its massive head and let out an agonized roar; one of its eyes was gone!
The knights had seized their opening.
A gilded longsword pierced directly into the lizard-lion's remaining eye. In an instant, thick, turbid fluid burst forth.
Its roars became louder, more frantic.
The Valyrian steel sword thrust into the lizard-lion's gaping maw. The razor-sharp tip broke through the hard carapace behind its head, pinning the beast's jaws shut.
It rolled about desperately, trying to dislodge the steel from its mouth.
But more longswords slashed open its vulnerable belly, forcefully cutting through muscle and churning its fragile internal organs.
It collapsed upon the riverbank and ceased its struggles.
The dust settled.
The boar had not escaped. The king-slaying lizard-lion lay dead. Revenge for the king had been exacted. But was there even a shred of joy to be found in this victory?
Not a single person smiled.
Eddard had completely lost his spirit. He did not refuse Jory Cassel's supportive arm, only staring blankly as soldiers covered Robert with the banner, pulled "Ice" from the lizard-lion's mouth, and cleansed all traces of the carnage from the riverbank.
Even now, with the party returned to the Inn at the Crossroads and the mourning ceremony for King Robert drawing to a close, Eddard still could not accept what had transpired.
Was this truly not some nightmare?
Eddard desperately wanted to sleep and wake to hear Robert's booming laughter once more, to see that familiar face. Even the ridiculously corpulent belly seemed an object of nostalgia now.
But everything around him served as a cruel reminder that it was over.
The era of King Robert, who had personally hammered Rhaegar to death, had ended. Robert, secretly referred to by some as the "usurper," had left the mortal realm and returned to the gods.
He heard countless people praying that His Grace find rest.
But Eddard knew that his good-brother Robert had hated rest more than anything; consigning him to rest was like sending him to the seven hells for torment.
"May the gods grant him love and laughter, and the joy of fighting for justice."
Robert, are there fine wines and glorious battles in the heavens? Is Lyanna there with you? Please give her my greetings, and may we eventually reunite.
"Lord Hand."
Ser Barristan approached with measured steps.
"The situation was dire at the time, but now... it's all over.
His Grace's departure brings great pain and calamity to the Seven Kingdoms, and the reasons behind it may not be simple.
Please examine this missive."
That's right.
I am the Hand of the King; Robert wanted me to help him govern the realm, and I must take up that burden.
The Seven Kingdoms cannot fall into turmoil again.
If only for Robert, for his children.
Eddard buried his grief deeper within his heart and accepted the wooden box from Barristan with a stony expression.
Bran quietly approached his father.
The boy didn't know whether he felt more sorrow or relief.
In the moment of attack, he had feared his father would perish. The outcome was better than he had feared.
Only a king had died.
But he understood his father's feelings all too well.
What if the beast had taken Robb instead? No, better not to think such thoughts.
He also grieved for Prince Joffrey.
Having lost his only father, His Highness must be devastated.
It was all the messenger's fault.
If the letter had arrived even half a day earlier, King Robert would have been safely away from danger, and none of this would have happened.
Bran watched his father reading the letter, wondering how he would respond.
Bloodraven is so hateful!
His father suddenly clenched the parchment in his fist, and his eyes surged with emotions Bran could not name.
"Bloodraven..."
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