The forge blazed with roaring fire and the rhythmic clang of hammer on steel.
Gendry, a tall, broad-shouldered youth with the unmistakable features of House Baratheon, stood bare-chested, sweat streaming down his skin as he swung a hammer onto a glowing sword blank. His arms, corded with muscle, were blackened with soot.
When Ser Barristan Selmy appeared in the doorway, his white armor gleaming in the forge's orange light, the hammering stopped. Silence fell over the smithy.
Tobho Mott, the shrewd old master smith, glanced at the knight and a flicker of realization—and worry—passed through his eyes.
"Who is Gendry?"
Ser Barristan's voice was cold and steady.
Gendry paused, lifting his head in confusion. When he saw the white cloak of the Kingsguard and the Gold Cloaks standing behind him, a wary glint flashed across his eyes.
"I am. What do you want, ser?"
"By command of His Grace, King Robert Baratheon, you are to come with us," Barristan said, keeping his tone calm.
"The King?" Gendry's brows furrowed. He was just a blacksmith's apprentice—why would the King want him?
Tobho Mott stepped forward quickly, forcing a smile. "Honored Ser, what has the boy done? He's a good apprentice, honest and hardworking…"
Barristan gave no answer. "This is the King's command."
He gestured for the Gold Cloaks to move in.
But before they could act, the sound of hooves thundered through the street outside. Shouts erupted as riders stormed through the city, the screams of common folk rising all around.
Barristan turned toward the noise. Through the doorway, he saw horsemen in gold-and-red Lannister armor tearing down the street, blades drawn, faces grim as they rode straight toward the Red Keep.
The old knight stiffened, his heart lurching.
Tywin has entered the city?!
Who summoned him? What is he planning?!
Two faces flashed in Barristan's mind.
The Queen—and Jaime.
A cold dread gripped him. The King is in danger.
He had to go back. He had to protect his king.
But when he turned and saw Gendry standing there, confused and uneasy, doubt struck him like a hammer blow.
The boy's face—so like a young Robert's—strong, proud, unmistakable.
He carried the King's blood. An innocent caught in the storm.
If Barristan returned to the Red Keep, who would protect him?
No.
The old knight's heart warred within him. His vow bound him to the King, to the royal line—but one man could not stand against an army. Going back now would be suicide.
And if he left the boy here, the Lannisters would see to it he never lived to see another dawn.
The image of Robert Baratheon's face rose before his eyes.
Whom do I protect? What is loyalty?
He clenched his jaw, torn between duty and conscience.
From outside came the distant clash of steel and the shouts of soldiers. The Lannister host was seizing control of King's Landing street by street. Time was running out.
In that instant, Ser Barristan Selmy—the knight who had lived his life by oath and honor—made his choice.
He tore off his soot-stained white cloak, symbol of his Kingsguard vows.
"Boy, listen carefully!" His voice was low and urgent. "Ask no questions. Follow me. Out the back door—now! I'll get you out of the city."
Ignoring Tobho Mott's stunned look, he seized Gendry's arm and drew his sword. Together they bolted through the smithy's back alley, vanishing into the chaos of the Street of Steel.
Barristan had chosen the hardest road—to protect a bastard bearing the blood of a king.
...
Inside the Red Keep's Great Hall, Varys's hiding place had outlived its usefulness.
Amid the chaos sown by Tywin's arrival and Varys's "well-timed" guidance, the Gold Cloaks finally uncovered Cersei and Jaime's whereabouts. Dragged from the tunnels like cornered dogs, they were hauled before the Iron Throne.
Robert Baratheon stood at the base of its jagged steps like a wrathful stag.
He did not sit upon the throne—the cold iron spikes would only remind him of its deceit.
In his hands, he gripped a massive two-handed sword, its tip scraping the stone floor with a shrill hiss.
His bloodshot eyes locked onto the twins as they were shoved into the hall. The hatred burning in them was enough to turn flesh to ash.
Cersei's golden hair hung in tangles, her fine gown dirtied and torn. The bruise on her pale face stood out starkly, yet her eyes still gleamed with venom and defiance.
Jaime's white cloak was filthy, his face marked with scratches, but he held himself tall. His gaze swept the hall, meeting the shifting eyes of the Gold Cloaks who had once served Cersei—and the few Kingsguard still loyal to her.
He knew then: the final moment had come.
His hand slipped silently toward the hilt of his sword.
"Whore! Kingslayer!"
Robert's roar rolled through the Great Hall like thunder, making the very stones tremble. "You two damned beasts—defiling my bed, defiling the Iron Throne—and now you dare use a bastard to steal my kingdom?!"
He swung up his greatsword, pointing it straight at Cersei. "We'll start with you. I'll take your head myself and hang it on the gates of King's Landing, so all can see what becomes of those who betray their king!"
He advanced in heavy strides, each one echoing like the tread of Death itself.
Cersei screamed, stumbling backward and crashing to the floor.
And then—
"Stop!!!"
The command cracked through the air like lightning, a voice cold and thunderous ringing from the hall's entrance.
All eyes turned.
There stood Great Lord Tywin Lannister, encased in dark crimson plate, a blood-red cloak billowing behind him. Mounted on a magnificent black warhorse, he rode straight into the Great Hall itself.
The horse's iron-shod hooves struck the polished black stone, each step ringing sharp and loud. Behind him surged the Westerlands' elite, a golden tide of steel and fury.
Tywin's gaze cut through the chaos like twin blades of ice. When he saw Robert's raised sword aimed at his fallen daughter—when he saw the bruises marring her pale face—his eternally frozen expression hardened into a storm capable of freezing hell itself.
The sound of his command, the sight of him charging in like a war god, broke the tension like shattering glass.
Among the Gold Cloaks holding Jaime and guarding Cersei, and even Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard, a murderous light flickered in their eyes.
In one motion, they drew their swords—not toward Jaime, but toward the unsuspecting loyalists beside them.
"For House Lannister!"
"Protect the Queen!"
Chaos exploded.
Those sworn to Robert clashed with those who served the Lannisters, the Westerlands soldiers pouring in to join the slaughter.
Steel clanged. Screams filled the hall.
This was the moment Jaime had waited for.
His hateful gaze locked on Robert in the center of the chaos. The instant the fighting began, he lunged forward like a predator unleashed.
Drawing his sword, he slipped into Robert's blind spot, moving with deadly speed and precision.
A wet, heavy sound tore through the din.
Jaime's blade drove clean through Robert Baratheon's heart from behind.
The point burst from the king's chest, glistening red.
Robert's huge body stiffened. The greatsword froze midair. He looked down, wide-eyed, at the blood-drenched steel protruding from his chest.
Disbelief and fury filled his gaze. With the last of his strength, he tried to turn, the greatsword in his hand dragging a slow, heavy arc through the air.
"Ahhh!"
Cersei screamed.
The blade missed its mark but caught her as she fell, slicing a cruel line from cheekbone to jaw.
Blood welled instantly, streaking down her face and soaking her golden hair. The agony and horror of it nearly sent her into unconsciousness.
Robert Baratheon—the once-mighty king who had conquered the Seven Kingdoms with his warhammer—made a hoarse, guttural sound. The light faded from his eyes.
His massive frame swayed, then toppled forward, crashing to the floor with a deafening thud, the sword still buried in his heart.
Blood flowed across the obsidian tiles like a crimson tide.
For a heartbeat, time stopped.
Jaime Lannister stood frozen, breath coming in ragged gasps. He stared at Robert's fallen body, at his own blood-slicked hands, at the white diamond on his sword hilt—the Kingsguard's sigil—now stained red.
He had killed a king. Again.
From his saddle, Tywin Lannister saw it all—his son's blade piercing Robert's heart, his daughter's face split open by the dying king's sword.
Beneath the pale green ice of his eyes, molten fury burned.
Anger for Cersei's wound. Rage for Jaime's recklessness—and the new stain of kingslaying upon his name.
Yet above it all, grim finality.
He had arrived just in time—before Robert's madness consumed his children. He had ended it.
The Lannisters would bear the curse of every tongue in Westeros, but it mattered little. History was written by the victors.
Slowly, the sounds of battle died.
The Gold Cloaks loyal to Robert lay dead or surrendered, cowed beneath the blades of the Westerlands army and their turncoats.
The twisted shadow of the Iron Throne stretched across Robert's cooling corpse and the spreading pool of blood—dark, jagged, and mocking.