Seven days later – The Royal Sept, Red Keep
The sept was solemn and hushed. Myrrh and frankincense hung thick in the air. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the towering stained-glass dome, spilling colored patterns across the marble floor.
The statues of the Seven stood silent on either side of the altar: the Father with his scales, the Mother cradling an infant, the Warrior gripping his sword, the Maiden with her wreath, the Smith raising his hammer, the Crone holding her lantern, and the Stranger… hidden in shadow, face forever veiled.
This was the grandest sept in all of Westeros. Generations of Targaryen kings had poured gold into it, making the gods look so lifelike they might step down and walk among the living.
The Targaryens had tied themselves to the Faith for centuries, and it was one of the reasons the smallfolk once revered them. Baelor the Blessed had even made the family and the gods seem like one and the same.
Too bad that bond hadn't lasted. Every strong Targaryen king was eventually followed by a fool who burned through the family's goodwill—until the Mad King finally shattered the entire dynasty.
Jon Arryn's body lay on a black marble bier in the center of the sept, looking almost peaceful, as if he had simply fallen asleep.
The Silent Sisters had finished their rites of purification and preservation. Now they circled the bier in their gray robes and seven-pointed-star veils, chanting the low, monotonous funeral hymn that seemed to drift in from another world.
King Robert Baratheon stood beside the bier, even bulkier than he had been a year ago. His beard was unkempt, his eyes bloodshot. He held a fine silver brush dusted with powdered pearl and was leaning over to paint the final "eyes" on Jon's closed lids—an ancient Westerosi custom so the soul could find its way to the seven heavens.
But Robert's movements were clumsy and rough. It looked less like a sacred ritual and more like an annoying chore he just wanted to finish.
His brow was furrowed, his breathing heavy, and the thick reek of wine rolled off him. Clearly he had already been drinking heavily before he even arrived.
Jon's death had hit him harder than anyone expected. The man had been more than a foster father—he had handed Robert an entire kingdom on a silver platter.
Now that pillar was gone, and Robert felt lost. He trusted no one. Everywhere he looked, he saw enemies.
High above in the gallery, Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister stood side by side, looking down on the scene.
They wore mourning black. Cersei was in a sleek black velvet gown with a heavy gold necklace set with an enormous emerald. Jaime wore his white Kingsguard armor beneath a black cloak, his golden hair catching the colored light from the windows.
"He's making a mess of it," Jaime murmured, a mocking smile tugging at his lips. "I bet if Jon's soul sees those crooked eyes, he'll choose the seven hells just to get away from them."
Cersei didn't smile. Her emerald-green eyes stayed fixed on Robert below, then drifted to Jon's body. Her expression was unreadable.
"We were too late," she said quietly, voice for Jaime's ears alone. "My people reported that Jon had started secretly investigating some… sensitive matters. I was still deciding how to handle it when he suddenly died."
Jaime glanced at his sister, one eyebrow raised. "You think something's off? The maesters said it was a sudden fever. He was sixty-eight, worked himself half to death for years—"
"A sudden fever?" Cersei gave a cold little laugh. "Right after drinking a cup of warm wine his wife brought him? Right after receiving Dorne's polite refusal on the marriage talks? Right after he started suspecting our children?"
She turned and met Jaime's eyes. "Dear brother, there are no coincidences like that in this world."
Jaime's face grew serious. He checked that no one else was close enough to hear before he asked, "Who do you think did it? Stannis? Renly? Or… Littlefinger?"
"I don't know," Cersei admitted, and for once there was real weariness in her voice. "That's what makes it so infuriating. We were getting ready to move, and the target dropped dead on his own. It feels like punching a feather pillow—no resistance."
Cersei had a nagging feeling that whoever was behind this already knew her secrets. They had simply removed Jon before he could speak.
And now things were about to get far messier.
First, the open conflict between her and Jon was now public. Everything would be pinned on her—including his death.
She kept watching below, curious how her drunken husband would react to all of this.
Robert had finished the eyes. He said something to Grand Maester Pycelle, then staggered toward a side door—obviously heading for more wine.
"Jaime," Cersei's voice dropped even lower. "How much do you think Robert knows?"
Jaime's face tightened for a split second, then smoothed again. "If he knew, we'd both be dead already. Our heads would be on spikes above the Red Keep gates, and Father would have received a very angry declaration of war. The Westerlands would be drowning in blood."
Cersei nodded, but the worry in her eyes didn't fade. "So he still doesn't know. But Jon did—or at least suspected. And now Jon is dead…"
"Dead men tell no tales," Jaime tried to reassure her.
"But the living can read plenty from their silence," Cersei shot back. "Robert may be a drunk, but he's not a complete idiot. Jon's death was too sudden, too convenient. He'll start asking questions."
Jaime thought for a moment, then asked, "What do you think he'll do? Appoint a new Hand and keep digging?"
The corner of Cersei's mouth curled into an icy smile. "He'll go straight to the only person he actually trusts."
"Father?" Jaime's eyes brightened. "Father would be the perfect choice—experience, ability, reputation—"
"No," Cersei cut him off, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Robert will never truly trust a Lannister. In his eyes we're just allies bound by marriage, a convenient bank that supplies gold dragons, and pieces he can sacrifice when needed."
She looked toward the great oak doors of the sept as if she could see straight through them. "He'll send for Eddard Stark."
Jaime blinked, then gave a short, derisive laugh. "Eddard Stark? That northern bumpkin who's spent fifteen years sulking in Winterfell and thinks King's Landing air is dirty? What can he do? Lecture everyone about honor and duty at the small council, then get played like a fiddle by Littlefinger and Varys?"
"Exactly because he's a bumpkin—because he doesn't understand the game—Robert trusts him," Cersei said coolly. "In Robert's mind, there's no one left in the Red Keep he can rely on. Varys is a spider with secrets. Pycelle is a weathervane. Ser Barristan is loyal but bound by his vows and can't meddle in politics. Stannis and Robert are barely speaking. Renly is all talk. And Petyr Baelish…"
She paused, eyes narrowing. "Petyr Baelish—our Master of Coin, and one of the biggest winners from Jon's death. You really think that's a coincidence?"
Jaime's frown deepened. "You suspect Littlefinger?"
"I suspect everyone," Cersei said. "But without proof, suspicion is just suspicion. The important thing is that Robert believes Ned Stark is the only man who would never betray him. They're brothers-in-arms. They toppled the Targaryens together. And Ned has stayed far away from the snake pit here in King's Landing. In Robert's eyes, he's 'clean.'"
Jaime suddenly grinned, a fighting smile. "Eddard Stark… I wouldn't mind crossing swords with him. After all, he killed Ser Arthur Dayne."
Cersei shot him a sharp glare. "You and Joffrey are exactly the same—always thinking with your sword arm! Grow up, Jaime. This isn't a fight that can be settled on the tourney field."
Jaime's face reddened for a second, but under his sister's fierce gaze he backed down. "I only meant—"
"I know what you meant," Cersei interrupted. "But right now we have to think about the family, not your knightly pride. The Seven Kingdoms are sliding toward chaos. Jon's death is only the beginning. Stannis won't stay quiet. Dorne won't wait forever. The Reach is growing bolder under the Tyrells. Balon Greyjoy is supposedly building ships again… and our king spends his days drinking and whoring."
She turned, black velvet skirts whispering across the stone. "We must be ready, Jaime. For the family. For our children. For ourselves."
Jaime watched his sister's back as she walked away. In that moment he realized Cersei was no longer the bitter, jealous young queen.
In the shadow of Jon Arryn's death, on the edge of the storm about to break over the Seven Kingdoms, she was becoming something colder, sharper—a true player.
And he would have to keep up.
The two of them left the gallery one after the other. Their footsteps echoed through the empty sept and were finally swallowed by the Silent Sisters' funeral hymn.
Behind them, on Jon Arryn's face, the crooked silver-painted eyes glinted strangely in the candlelight—watching, waiting, as if they still held one last secret that would never be told.