c41: The Hand of the King
He had not expected the Targaryen family to stage such a comeback from such desperate circumstances.
Sir Barristan Selmy the famed "Bold," known across the Seven Kingdoms for his unmatched valor had long believed that House Targaryen was finished, its last embers extinguished after the fall of Aerys II Targaryen and the defeat of Rhaegar Targaryen at the Battle of the Trident.
He had always been a man of absolute loyalty to the Iron Throne above all else. In the past, he had been willing to lay down his life for the Targaryen kings he served.
Yet, after the rebellion, it was Robert Baratheon who spared him, recognizing his honor and skill. Rather than casting him aside, Robert had appointed him Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, allowing him to continue serving the realm.
Now, the white-cloaked knight stood within the royal chambers of the Red Keep, one hand resting lightly upon the hilt of his sword.
Before him lay chaos.
The overturned table, the spilled wine soaking into scattered documents, the trembling servants and maesters pressed against the edges of the room all bore witness to the king's fury.
And at the center of it all stood Robert himself.
His thick black hair and beard were wild, his powerful frame wrapped in a heavy cloak, his presence like that of a raging bear. His anger seemed boundless, spilling over in violent bursts as he smashed whatever lay within reach.
The echoes of destruction carried beyond the chamber doors, unsettling all who lingered nearby.
Sir Barristan slowly took in the scene.
There was no order only ruin.
Yet he said nothing.
The veteran knight neither stepped forward nor offered words to calm the king. He simply stood, silent and watchful, as he had done countless times before.
The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened, his pale blue gaze growing distant. Then, lowering his eyes to the floor beneath his feet, he exhaled softly.
A memory stirred.
This scene…
It felt hauntingly familiar.
Another king had stood in this very chamber once the previous master of these rooms.
The so-called Mad King, Aerys II Targaryen.
He, too, had raged within these walls. He had shattered furniture, screamed at courtiers, and in his madness, ordered men burned alive with wildfire finding twisted pleasure in their suffering.
Sir Barristan had witnessed it all.
He had believed those days were over. That the madness had died with Aerys, cut down by Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, during the fall of King's Landing.
He had thought never to see such a scene again.
Yet now, scarcely half a year later, he stood here once more, watching a king rage in the same chamber.
"Sir Barristan Selmy!"
The shout cut through his thoughts.
King Robert had stopped pacing.
He stood still now, his gaze fixed upon the Kingsguard commander, who remained near the doorway, Stannis's letter still in hand.
The king's voice was deep, powerful though no longer shouting, it carried the weight of barely restrained fury.
Unlike Aerys, however, Robert did not turn his anger upon the innocent.
He did not burn men for sport.
"Your Grace."
Snapping back to the present, Sir Barristan inclined his head slightly and set the letter aside. His posture straightened, his expression composed, his eyes steady upon the king.
"Go," Robert commanded, his voice like distant thunder, "to the Tower of the Hand. Summon Jon Arryn at once."
"I have matters of great importance to discuss with him."
The words rang through the chamber like the tolling of a great bell.
In that moment, it was clear that Robert had made a decision one not born merely of anger, but of necessity.
For in all the realm, there was one man he trusted above all others.
Jon Arryn Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East, and Hand of the King had been more than an ally. He had been a father figure to Robert, a steady and guiding presence through war and rule alike.
Brave, honorable, and wise, Jon Arryn was the man Robert turned to when the weight of the crown grew too heavy to bear alone.
If the old lord had not once raised his banners in defiance of the Mad King sheltering his two wards when Aerys II Targaryen demanded their heads then both Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark would have perished before the war had even begun.
There would have been no rebellion, no crowned king, and no Lord of Winterfell as the realm now knew them.
Because of this, Robert held Jon Arryn in the highest regard. The old Lord of the Eyrie was not only his Hand, but the man who had made his rise possible. Robert trusted him deeply more than any other and sought his counsel in nearly every matter of importance.
As Eddard Stark had once said,
"Perhaps only Jon Arryn in this world can restrain Robert. Even the king's own parents could not have reformed him."
Yet upon hearing the king's command, Sir Barristan frowned ever so slightly, though he did not move from his place.
"Hmm?"
"Go!" Robert barked again, irritation flaring as he saw the knight had not obeyed at once. His temper, barely contained, threatened to rise again as his sharp gaze fixed upon the white-cloaked figure.
Sir Barristan Selmy, however, remained calm and unmoving. His steady eyes met the king's fury without fear, his composure unshaken despite the storm that raged within Robert.
After a brief pause, he let out a quiet breath and spoke in an even tone.
"Your Grace… have you forgotten?"
"That the Hand of the King has been absent from King's Landing for more than a month?"
The words hung in the air.
Though the Baratheon dynasty had seized the Iron Throne, the Seven Kingdoms were far from fully united. The scars left by Robert's Rebellion had not yet healed.
Dorne still simmered with resentment, refusing to fully bend the knee after the brutal deaths of Elia Martell and her children during the Sack of King's Landing.
Even the Iron Islands, ruled by Balon Greyjoy, had yet to present themselves in submission to the new king.
And so, as Hand of the King, Jon Arryn had taken upon himself the burden of mending the fractured realm.
For over two years, war had swept across Westeros, leaving ruin in its wake. Though Robert now sat the Iron Throne, the kingdom had not yet recovered to its former strength under Targaryen rule.
Dorne, in particular, remained a festering wound.
Thus, more than a month earlier, after careful preparation, Jon Arryn had departed King's Landing, traveling south toward Dorne. He carried with him the remains of Lewyn Martell, hoping that returning the fallen prince to his homeland might soothe Dornish anger and begin the long process of reconciliation.
Even Sir Barristan had been surprised that a man of Jon Arryn's age would undertake such a demanding journey for the sake of peace.
Meanwhile, the king left behind in the capital had gradually fallen into indulgence.
Without his Hand to guide him, Robert had abandoned himself to feasting, drinking, and women, leaving the burdens of governance to be dealt with upon Jon Arryn's return.
"Hmm?"
"Jon Arryn… has already left King's Landing?"
The fury on Robert's face gave way to confusion. His thick brows furrowed as he tried to recall the matter, the anger that had filled him moments ago now faltering under the weight of uncertainty.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
Then, slowly, recognition dawned.
Ah…
Now he remembered.
A faint, almost sheepish realization flickered across his features.
No wonder the old man had not been there had not stood at his side to restrain his excesses, to chide him for his drinking and his endless indulgences.
It was not that Jon Arryn had grown lenient.
It was simply that he was gone already riding south toward Dorne, carrying the fragile hopes of a fractured realm with him.
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