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"I want her dead. If possible, I would slink my own dagger in her belly, if I get the chance to do so." Robert bellowed, his face a bright shade of red, slamming his massive fist onto the table.

"I will have Ser Jorah do the job, your Grace," Varys, the Spider, simpered.

"Jorah is but one man. I say we send quite a few more to aid him," Grand Maester Pycelle said.

Robert nodded. "Do it then. I want the best catspaw on her."

Ser Barristan looked down at the King but remained silent.

"Fear the gods, Your Grace. She is just a child!" Ned said stiffly, utterly aghast at the casual, vicious cruelty of Robert.

"A dragonspawn, Ned, not any child," the King roared, his voice thick with fury-stricken hatred. "Her brother snatched Lyanna from me, he raped her! I want the bitch dead, or she will birth more dragonspawns!"

"You truly don't have to fear for that, Robert. The Dothraki are known to take many wives. She is one child, no threat. There's no need to be needlessly cruel," Ned argued, trying to steer the conversation toward practicality. Robert's words about Lyanna still hit a raw string; he didn't want to be played by the King's ancient grief.

"I care not for that!" Robert said with finality. "She'll be disposed of, and this world will be free of those dragons. Joffrey will rule after me, and I don't want a horde of those savage Dothraki raiding Westeros."

"It's better to nip a bud before it gets the chance to flower into a poisonous plant," Littlefinger said, his voice silky as always.

"The Dothraki will never cross the narrow sea," Renly interjected, his voice surprisingly calm. Ned was, for the first time, glad for the distraction of his presence in the council chamber. "Still, precautions need to be taken," Renly added, and the feeling of gratitude Ned felt died down instantly.

Ned turned to Robert, his gaze hardening. "Daenerys Targaryen is a child. Killing her would gain us nothing but dishonor."

"Satisfaction, Ned! It will give me satisfaction! You've already left that other whore live, safely in Dorne. A second Targaryen, that too married to a Khal. I will not suffer it," Robert said, spit flying out of his mouth as his rage consumed him.

From the side of his eye, Ned saw Varys shuffle slightly. The Master of Whisperers leaned forward with his usual unctuous sincerity. "My Lord Hand, it is imperative that we eliminate any threat to the Crown before it even gets the chance to rise."

Ned spun on the Spider, his eyes furious. "And we do that by killing a child?" He turned back to Robert, his decision made. "If you really want to go this way, then count me out of this. And before sending a catspaw her way, find a new Hand for yourself, Your Grace."

Robert gritted his teeth in anger. He grasped the heavy wine flagon on his table and threw it against the far wall, where it shattered. "You get on my nerve, damnit! Out with you all! Out! And give me that badge of yours!"

Ned, his jaw set, unlatched the heavy Hand's badge from his chest. He threw it onto the table with a loud clank that silenced the room, and without another word, marched out of the Small Council chamber.

Ned's fury pushed him through the corridors of the Red Keep. He didn't walk; he marched, his heavy boots echoing his rage against the smooth stone floors.

His jaw was set, his eyes burning with an incandescent mix of betrayal and moral disgust. He slammed the door to his apartments behind him and strode straight into his solar in the Tower of the Hand.

He had never thought his friend capable of such casual ruthlessness. Years ago, when the mutilated bodies of Elia Martell, and the infant, Aegon Targaryen were presented, draped mockingly in the red linens of House Lannister, Ned had believed it was an act of savage cruelty orchestrated by the Old Lion.

Even when Robert had said he saw "No child but dragonspawn", Ned had told himself that the King's profound, debilitating grief over losing Lyanna had clouded his mind and poisoned his judgment.

Yet, now, as he spoke so clearly of killing a child across the narrow sea, Ned could not offer his friend that excuse. He thought not.

The hypocrisy of it all was a bitter taste in his mouth. It was hypocritical of Robert to constantly mention Lyanna whenever he wanted to fuel his rage, yet feel perfectly free to share his bed with any woman who caught his eye.

It was ironic of him to insist on killing the remaining Targaryens in Lyanna's name, yet remain utterly blind to the fact that he couldn't even bother to recognize the face of her blood in Jon.

For the first time in all these years, the bedrock of his life—his decision to keep Jon's identity a secret—felt shaky. Ned doubted himself deeply for following Robert's orders, for thinking that sending Jon to the Wall was a noble choice to keep him out of the King's bloody radar. What if it was just cowardice?

He slammed the door to the solar behind him again—the noise was a small, inadequate release for his anger. He was furious, not just at Robert, but at the South as a whole, this den of vipers that had stripped him of his honesty and his peace.

He had been living quietly in Winterfell for years after the Kraken's Rebellion, and then Jon Arryn had to die, and he had been forced to come South.

He came South for Robert, for a king he had fought battles with, a King he had genuinely seen as a brother for a long time. And now, that same brother was casually talking of assassinating a girl, a girl not too much older than his own sweet Sansa.

Was that how a catspaw was sent to the North, for Bran? The sickening thought twisted his gut. Someone here, in the perfumed hell of King's Landing, had thought him a hurdle in their plans and sent an assassin to break his will.

He walked to the window, placing his hands on the stone sill, breathing out slowly, trying to reign in his temper. It had been years since he had been this angry, years since he had truly lost his cool.

He was Ned Stark, the quiet Hand of the King, the Lord of Winterfell—not a man who let fury guide his sword. But the anger was a necessary fire. It clarified his vision. He was no longer the Hand.

The day his father decided to go on the hunt wasn't a special day, by any means. It was a simple day, with good weather, the sun bright but the air crisp.

His father was deeply bored, and Harry knew that after the explosive argument with Ned Stark, he desperately needed to vent off his frustration in the woods.

The King had ultimately backed down from his outright fury, ordering Lord Stark to remain as the Hand for a bit longer, a temporary political truce that fooled no one, and then immediately declared he was going hunting to clear his head.

Haridon had, as always, immediately desired to join him. It wasn't simply because he sought to be close with his father, although he didn't hate the rare, uncomplicated time spent together.

It was more of his fierce Baratheon body's calling; this body needed the adrenaline, the rush, and the excitement of the hunt to feel truly alive. It was the same as his previous body needing magic, or the broom under him, to feel truly alive.

So, here they were, a sizable royal hunting party gathered at the gates of the Red Keep. The core group included his Uncle Renly, his father, him, Ser Barristan, Ser Arys, and Ser Jon Snow.

Lancel Lannister was also there, as were several other squires, tasked with carrying their gear and supplies. Harry's own supply pack, light but containing essentials for his work, was tied to his horse.

He was ready to ride out.

Joffrey, as always, had opted out of the hunt, clearly preferring the luxury of the castle over the rough terrain of the forest. His mother stood by the gate to see them off, a beautiful, serene smile on her lips that Harry found genuinely endearing, even knowing the sharp mind behind it.

Tyrion was notably absent, having returned to Casterly Rock just a few days prior, summoned back by his lord Grandfather. Harry mused that this continuous on-and-go between the capital and the Westerlands must be tiring on the dwarf, though Tyrion seemed to handle it with characteristic wry detachment.

"Get going, get going!" his father yelled, his voice booming with impatience, eager to be away from the keep for a few days.

"Be safe," his mother, Cersei, said, her voice carrying a quiet warning beneath the surface of affection. "And don't take unwanted risks."

Harry smiled back, a genuine acknowledgment, knowing his mother was only being careful—not just for his safety, but for the intricate political balance that kept her house secure.

The entourage moved forward soon, the smallfolk lined the sidewalk as the royal party crossed King's Landing, their cheers and shouts following them until they passed through the outer wall and entered the fringe of the Kingswood.

Harry glanced forward at the King. His father, Robert, was already on his tenth cup of wine, or was it eleven? He shook his head slightly.

The man absolutely should not drink this much, not while in the vicinity of dangerous predators of the forest, both four-legged and two. But who would dare deny Robert Baratheon his drink? Only a stupid man, or a dead one.

Harry slowed his horse slightly, drawing at the level of his sworn shield. "Have you been on a hunt before, Jon?" he asked, his eyes scanning the dense undergrowth and listening for the snap of twigs.

Jon shook his head, his face solemn. "Not in these woods, my Grace."

"In the North then?" Harry pressed, trying to keep the conversation easy while remaining vigilant.

"Aye," Jon said, a nostalgic smile briefly touching his lips. "There were quite a few hunts with my father, and then later with Robb and me. We liked to spend a few days in the forest, living off the land, eating whatever we hunted."

"Are you any good with a bow, Ser Jon?" Harry teased, nodding to the fine bow strapped to his own saddle.

Jon returned the smile. "Not as good as you, Your Grace. But I can hold my own."

"I have told you to call me Harry, Jon, or 'Prince' if you love the formality," Harry reminded him gently, looking forward as the forest thickened, swallowing the noise of the city entirely.

"Theon, Greyjoy that is, was the best of us with a bow," Jon continued, his voice softer, probably lost in the memory of the North. "He didn't much like the traditional hunts, but he usually followed behind me and Robb."

Harry glanced toward him. "You seem close to him."

"Not me, my Prince," Jon clarified immediately. "Robb and Theon were closer, being raised together. But Robb and me were closer still." The distinction was clear, a quiet affirmation of his bond with the trueborn heir of Winterfell.

Harry merely hummed, letting the topic settle. They moved deeper into the forest. The trees were dense, their heavy foliage shading the sunlight into a cool, mottled gloom, and they rode forward in silence for a time, listening to the crackle of dry leaves under the horses' hooves.

Suddenly, a booming sound shattered the quiet. "Release the hounds!" his father bellowed from the center of the line.

Lancel Lannister, who was surprisingly near the front, ducked his head and nodded, walking briskly toward the back of the entourage to free the scent hounds from their cage.

The powerful hounds barked with excitement and rushed forward, a tight leash strapped to each to keep them in line for the King's Master of the Hunt.

"Follow the hounds!" the King yelled, his voice rough with anticipation, and his men shouted back in affirmation, spreading a bit to allow for better movement and keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of game.

Harry moved his horse a bit to the left, just a few meters, choosing a path with slightly thicker cover. Jon was immediately with him, his own mount following smoothly. Ser Arys Oakheart rode close by them both.

Ser Barristan remained close to the King, and Renly was positioned near the King's retinue as well. The hunt was now fully underway.

To his left, Harry suddenly heard a twig snap. He instantly looked that way, but the dense, shaded woods revealed nothing. These lands were treacherous; they also held panthers, the kind that silently climbed the trees and attacked from above.

He needed to be vigilant. He signaled Jon with a sharp hand gesture, directing him to ride ahead and scout the immediate surroundings.

The boy nodded once and rode off, disappearing quickly into the brush. Jon was undeniably brave, Harry observed. Braver than most he had seen, and Harry had seen the likes of the Hound and Thoros of Myr in battle and in the yards.

Jon was reckless with his courage, a trait both admirable and worrying.

Jon returned a few moments later, shaking his head. He had found nothing. Harry nodded in acknowledgement and waved the boy back to his side.

The day wore on, turning from late afternoon to early evening.

The King's hunting entourage caught only a few glimpses of lean deer, far too fast and wary to follow, and a small, solitary bear—too young to be of any value to the King's trophy cabinet.

Robert's mood grew steadily more sour with every unopened wine flagon and every missed target.

As the night came, the King finally conceded defeat for the day. He found a small clearing and roared his orders to set up camp.

The supplies were quickly unloaded, the wood was gathered, and the dinner fires were lit. Tents were set up for rest; the serious hunting would resume tomorrow morning.

Ned eyed the boy standing stiffly before him. The boy was as black-haired as Robert and Prince Haridon, his eyes the same striking shade of light blue as the King.

Indeed, Gendry resembled Lord Renly more than his alleged father himself, but Mott was adamant that Jon had sent the boy here, and that he was, undeniably, the King's bastard. Gendry Waters.

"And he is the only one you know of?" Ned asked the blacksmith, his voice stern and demanding truth.

"Yes, my Lord Hand," the blacksmith said gruffly, crossing his thick arms. "I don't go searching for others, that's not mi hobby."

Ned gave a curt nod and walked away from the boy. Baelish immediately separated himself from the shadows of the alleyway and came gliding up beside Ned.

"Told you, my Lord," Littlefinger said with a familiar, irritating smugness.

"I know not why Lord Jon was interested in the King's bastards, but he clearly kept them safe," Ned ignored him, and his claim to foresight.

"Safe from whom, if you don't mind to tell me?" Ned asked shortly, turning a sharp gaze on the Master of Coin.

"The Queen's wrath, I presume, my Lord Hand," the slimy Vale lord said, his voice dripping with insinuation. "It is no new news that the Queen hates her husband's bastards. Not everyone suffers their husband's bastards, my Lord."

Ned glanced at him sharply, recognizing the subtle, pointed reference to his own relationship with Jon Snow. Littlefinger didn't back away, but he lowered his eyes slightly, a move practiced to appear respectful while concealing insolence.

"And you know this, why is that?" Ned asked, his frown deepening.

"I was given this job on behest of Lord Jon," the man said with a practiced, smooth smile. "I was quite close to him, my Lord. He sometimes brought me with him when checking on the children."

Ned looked away from Littlefinger, the man's smooth smile and claims of intimacy with Jon Arryn likely false. Whether Baelish was lying about his relationship with the former Hand or not, the information itself—that Jon had been quietly investigating Robert's bastards—was too important to ignore.

"Very well, Lord Baelish," Ned said, his voice flat. "You've proven Lord Arryn's interest. Now, find me the rest of them. Quietly. Every last child of the King in this city."

The slimy Vale lord's eyes gleamed with undisguised pleasure at the prospect of holding this over him. "I live to serve, Lord Stark. But discretion costs money, as you know."

Ned nodded curtly. "Give me a list of your expenses when I return. Now go. And ensure your inquiries are handled only by those you trust completely."

He spent the next few hours working from his solar, not as the Hand, he still refused to wear the badge, but as an investigator. He poured over the Book of Lineage and cross-referenced names, looking for subtle patterns that might link back to the children.

There must be something that Jon knew, or was investigating. Harry knew not what, but he desired to find out. Maybe it was the reason Jon was dead.

He sent a few of his most trusted Northern men, disguised in plain clothes, on errands across the city to verify Littlefinger's inevitable findings.

1. Tobho Mott's Apprentice: Gendry

Location: Blacksmith's shop in the city.

Appearance: Black hair, striking blue eyes, resembling Renly Baratheon.

Status: Working, healthy, and ignorant of his parentage. Ned resolved to keep him safe under the guise of work.

2. The Inn of the Ivy: Barra

Appearance: Infant, dark hair, blue eyes.

Status: Healthy. The mother claimed the child was the King's, noting his generosity when he visited.

The pattern was undeniable, staring Ned in the face from the pages of the lineage book: every confirmed bastard of Robert Baratheon—including the children found today—had the distinct Baratheon look: black hair and blue eyes.

Yet, Ned's gaze kept returning to the one significant exception who complicated the treason: Prince Haridon.

And Prince Haridon had the same black hair, a clear Baratheon trait, but he possessed green eyes—Lannister green. Ned tapped his fingers on the table.

It was nothing new; his own sons were red-haired, and Sansa was an almost exact copy of Catelyn, showing a strong maternal influence. Hair and eye color often blended or favored one parent.

The Baratheon black hair often dominated, but the eyes could be anything.

No, the prince was too complex a clue to resolve immediately. There was something he was missing, a piece of information that would solve all of this. He exhaled, settling down heavily in his chair.

The last few days had been utterly hectic: first his explosive argument with Robert and his resignation, then Robert's subsequent order for him to remain the Hand, and now this life-or-death investigation.

Baelish had provided him with the books of account, but they lay untouched on a side table. There was no time to thoroughly check them; the fate of the realm and the safety of his family took precedence over the Crown's debts.

Ned looked down at the parchment detailing the attack on Bran and the description of the Valyrian steel dagger. He needed to focus. The lineage was a political bombshell, but the dagger was a direct link to the assassin and the employer.

Jon woke up early, rousing with the prince and immediately donned his armor as soon as he was fresh. The sounds emanating from outside the tent—men shouting, horses whickering, and the clatter of gear—were already telling of the King's plan to move forward with the hunt.

He took a moment to appreciate his surroundings. They were in a much deeper part of the King'swood, and it was quite different from the Wolfswood of the North he was familiar with.

While the Wolfswood was dominated by pine trees, the sacred weirwood, and other sturdy trees that grew well in snowy areas, the King'swood was filled with oak, elm, and other deciduous wood types.

The dense canopy shielded the forest floor, making the ground slightly damp and soft-soiled.

Jon walked out to see Ser Barristan adjusting the saddle of his horse. "Ser," he greeted the Lord Commander respectfully, before moving to his own horse.

He was a knight now, so technically he could take squires. But he was a bastard still, and he knew how much the southerners looked down upon that title. He had no doubt any high lord would hesitate or even flat-out refuse their charge to squire for him, even if he was the Prince's sworn shield.

He prepared his horse meticulously, securing his saddle and checking his tack. The prince came to stand beside him, focused on his own mount. Jon worked swiftly, before climbing onto his horse with practiced ease.

Half an hour later, they were riding out again, the King leading the entourage. From the side of his eye, Jon saw Lancel Lannister continually hand cups after cups of wine to the King.

He glanced at the prince, who had noticed the same and was already frowning. Still, nobody dared to deny the King, and the entourage moved forward.

It was a few hours later that the hounds grew excited, barking and whining to be released. Once let loose, they led the party deeper into the woods. The trees became denser, and Jon could see thick algae growing on several trunks, a sign of perpetual dampness.

Jon didn't register what happened next, but the prince reacted instantly. Prince Haridon drew his bow and shot three arrows in quick succession.

Two of them embedded harmlessly into a thick tree, but the third sailed past it and hit something that immediately let out a loud, pained squeal.

"Atta, boy!" the King bellowed in a drunken stupor, energized by the sound of the kill. "To the damn pig, men! Follow me!" He yelled and spurred his horse forward, leading the charge.

They reached a small, damp clearing. There, on the forest floor, was a large sow, squealing and rolling around in pain, with an arrow lodged deep in her left side.

The prince, seeing the animal's suffering, quickly drew another arrow, showing mercy. He lodged it, shot it swiftly at the sow's head, the iron point piercing the skull and instantly killing the creature. The squealing stopped.

The King laughed, a loud, drunken roar, as he climbed down from his horse, stumbling slightly. The prince followed, as did Ser Barristan and Ser Arys. Jon climbed down, but his instincts kept him vigilant. He made sure to keep an eye out for potential danger; they were deep in predator territory, and while tales of Lizard Lions in the King'swood were probably fantasy, he still needed to be alert.

The King bent down, checking the dead sow. "A clean hit! My son claims this creature!" He yelled, smiling lopsidedly at Haridon. It was clear that the King had drunk far too much. "Load it on the carriage, we—"

Nobody saw the boar when it charged. It appeared out of the shadows of the trees like a sudden, dark apparition. Prince Haridon looked at it, stunned; his own weapons were still strapped to his horse, leaving him with only his bow in hand.

Jon instantly revealed his sword, as did Ser Barristan and Ser Oakheart. But they were not as fast as the charging boar. It rammed into the King with terrifying force, its long, yellowed tusk piercing the King's soft skin and lifting him a few feet over the ground.

There was a frantic twang of arrows— Prince Haridon, recovering instantly, loosed two more. They embedded deeply into the skull of the boar, stopping it cold, but it was already too late. The King had been gored, slit open like a cake from his waist all the way up to his left nipple.

Prince Haridon rushed forward, dropping his bow, as did Ser Barristan, Lord Renly, and Jon. They reached the King as the gored beast collapsed.

"Haridon..." the King muttered, the name a painful gasp, before falling back onto the soft, damp ground, utterly unconscious.

The Prince reached the King first, bending down immediately to examine the catastrophic wound. The King's hunting tunic was soaked through. "It's too deep," Haridon said grimly, his voice flat with forced control. The tusk had eviscerated the King's abdomen. "How far away are we from the city?"

"At least one and a half day, My Prince," Ser Barristan said, his face a mask of shock and concern.

Prince Haridon shook his head, his focus entirely on the injury. "It'll be too late. The blood loss... Do we have any healing supplies, anything sterile?"

Ser Arys immediately nodded and raced toward the supply carriage, recognizing the urgency.

"We should pull the boar away from him," Renly suggested, looking ill.

But Haridon shook his head sharply. "No, pulling it away will only cause more internal damage and lead to more bleeding." He looked up, his green eyes locking onto Jon's. "Jon, cut the head."

"That close a cut is dangerous, my Prince," Ser Barristan protested instantly, worried about the exposed flesh and the raw tusk near the King.

"Jon!" the Prince repeated, his tone brooking no argument.

Jon walked forward instantly, unsheathing his sword. He didn't hesitate or question the order. He lifted the longsword before swinging it in one clean, swift swipe. The head of the gored boar was separated from the body just below the tusk, leaving the dangerous weapon lodged but separated from the carcass's weight.

Ser Arys returned, his face pale and his hands empty. "The supplies are bereft of any healing material, Prince," he reported, sounding deeply ashamed.

Harry looked up, his frustration immediately turning his features severe. Jon gulped, witnessing the sudden, intense anger of the Prince; an Angry Prince Haridon looked quite dangerous.

"Then get me something to hold the bleeding!" he snapped, his voice sharp and low.

Ser Barristan quickly unlatched his heavy white cloak, tearing a strip of the fine linen lining. Ser Oakheart immediately followed suit, offering what material they could.

"Jon, Renly, and Ser Arys, come help me pick him up," Prince Haridon commanded, his focus instantly snapping back to the King.

Jon rushed forward with the other two men. "Be careful, my Prince," he urged, his voice tight. "We don't want to hurt him more."

They lifted the King slightly, and the Prince worked with quiet the speed. He took the strips of cloth and tied them around Robert's middle, tightening it around the still embedded snout and tusk in a desperate attempt to staunch the catastrophic flow of blood.

"Lift him, onto the carriage," the Prince ordered. Carefully, the three men hoisted the heavy King into the back of the hunting carriage, where he lay prone.

"My Prince," Jon said silently as they climbed their horses to ride behind the moving carriage. "Maybe you could use magic."

Haridon turned to him, his face etched with strain. "And pray tell, with what? I don't have my rune carving tool, nor my supplies, and certainly no private, warded place for a ritual."

"Maybe on the forest floor, then," Jon offered, desperate.

The Prince shook his head firmly. "It's not a godswood, Jon. These trees don't even possess significant ambient magic, and even if they did, I need a potent magical substance to sacrifice."

Jon thought again, his mind racing through the principles Harry had taught him. Maybe the Prince was right, but the thought of doing nothing was unbearable. "But surely blood—"

"Blood rituals are volatile," the Prince cut him off, his voice tight. "They need a perfect environment and a clear mind. I have neither, nor do I have magically ambient material to hold the blood. I've thought it all through," the Prince said, his frustration evident. "Our only chance is to reach King's Landing as quickly as we can."

"Maybe then," the Prince repeated, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. The hope was frail, but it was all they had.

"The King has been impaled!" Grand Maester Pycelle yelled, bursting unceremoniously into the Small Council chamber, his usually placid demeanor no where to be seen.

Varys looked up from the ledger before him, his mask of shock sliding into its place. Behind it, however, his mind was racing, giddy with the imminent chaos, giddy for the promise of war.

"What are you talking about?" Lord Stark demanded, standing abruptly and swiftly picking the crumpled parchment from Pycelle's shaking, old hand. He read the scribbled words, his face hardening. "This can't be!"

"But it is, my Lord," Grand Maester confirmed, trembling. "The rider arrived but moments ago."

Varys already knew. His little birds had seen the frantic, mud-splattered messenger arrive and deliver the parchment. He had immediately put his backup plan into place; soon the Seven Kingdoms would be engulfed in turmoil.

It was time. Time for him to weave his webs. He already had a mind in his plan; what he needed now was to act on it.

"The King was on a hunt," Baelish remarked smoothly from his seat, his eyes sharp.

Varys was certain the Master of Coin already knew the full story; the man had his own vast spy network. Brothels and coins were Littlefinger's forte, but that didn't mean he lacked intrigue.

"And it seems a boar has succeeded in impaling him," Ned Stark said, his voice flat with a deep, frustrated weariness. He looked up at the Grand Maester. "I want a chamber prepared for him immediately, and ravens to the nearest keeps requesting their most skilled maesters."

"Maesters, with this haste, my Lord? I don't think it is possible," Pycelle protested, wringing his hands. "The journey—"

"At least send out some ravens, Pycelle," Ned countered, his eyes blazing with desperate hope. "If we're lucky, one might arrive in time."

A few hours later, Varys stood in the courtyard with Lord Stark, Littlefinger, and Pycelle when the royal entourage arrived.

The sight was grim: the King was being carried slowly on the back of the hunting carriage, his massive body motionless. Prince Haridon and the others rode behind him, splattered with mud and looking utterly exhausted. Even Lord Renly seemed unusually silent and quite irritated.

"Carry him out, men!" Prince Haridon's voice—sharp and commanding despite his youth—rang through the courtyard. The assembling men quickly moved to lift the King and carry him inside the Keep.

They followed as the King was placed carefully in a separated chamber, where he was immediately surrounded by only Grand Maester Pycelle and his assistants.

"What's happening?" The Queen rushed down the stairs, her robes sweeping dramatically. Varys, watching her closely, registered that the King's condition was clearly no surprise to her; her shock was too well-acted.

"The King has been impaled, Your Grace, by a boar," Ser Arys Oakheart said, sounding foolishly guilty and devastated by the failure of his duty.

"What were you doing then? Where's Prince Haridon?" the Queen demanded in quick succession, her voice rising, clearly ready to put the blame for this "accident" squarely on the knights who failed to protect her husband.

"He's ran back to his chamber," Lord Stark said, standing stiffly outside the King's new sickroom.

But Varys ignored the following conversation between the Queen and the Hand. His eyes were fixed on Lord Renly. Renly had been unnaturally subdued since arriving, his fashionable clothes dirty and his composure ruffled. The game begins now, Varys thought.

He smoothly slid closer to Renly, maintaining an appropriate distance but ensuring privacy in the courtyard. He knew a few carefully chosen words, delivered in the right mood, would be enough to ignite the ambition lurking beneath the Lord of Storm's End's polished surface.

"It is deeply saddening what has happened to the King, my Lord," The Spider began, his voice a smooth whisper that managed to sound as sympathetic and apologetic as possible.

Renly nodded curtly in reply, his gaze distant, fixed on the doorway where his brother had been carried inside. He smiled internally; the hook was set.

"In all my years," Varys continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I've never seen the King look so weak and vulnerable."

Renly finally looked up, his composure returning instantly. "My brother is a strong man," he insisted, perhaps too forcefully. "He will survive even this. The boar came out of nowhere, or he would have cut its head clean off!"

He simply nodded again, allowing the denial to hang in the air. "Still, it seems grim, my Lord. And the realm requires strength, now more than ever."

Varys allowed a delicate pause, letting Renly consider the gravity of his words. "I pray to the gods that I am wrong, my Lord," he continued, his eyes wide and earnest, "but the King could die. And then, Prince Joffrey will take the throne."

Varys leaned in slightly. "Joffrey, who is underage. The custom dictates that the regent would be the Queen."

Renly looked toward his sister-in-law; the Queen seemed to be berating Ser Barristan.

The implications were obvious and devastating. "The real power will be entirely in her hands, my Lord," Varys concluded, letting the silent threat of Tywin Lannister ultimately controlling the iron throne.

The Baratheon Lord contemplated this for a long moment, the color slowly draining from his face as he realized the full political disaster this situation presented. He finally gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment.

Without another word, or a direct response to Varys's manipulation, Renly turned and walked away, his mind clearly working at a furious pace.

Harry emerged from his private chamber, no longer wearing the thin, mud-splattered tunic from the hunt, but dressed in dark, expensive doublet and trousers.

The frenetic energy of the hunt was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. He had needed the solitude to wash, change, and, more importantly, to quietly check his magical supplies and focus his thoughts.

He found Jon waiting outside the door, his face worried. "Are you alright, My Prince?"

"I am as well as I can be," He replied, his voice low. "The King is stable, for now. Pycelle is useless, but at least he's clean."

He glanced towards the door of Robert's sickroom, where Cersei and Jaime were still hovering, their faces betraying nothing to the casual observer.

"I need to speak with Lord Stark, Jon. Immediately," Harry instructed. "He's the only man here who won't immediately dissolve into panic or treason. Stay here and keep an eye on them. If anything—anything—changes with my father, you come find me."

He moved swiftly, his steps quick and purposeful, heading directly for the Tower of the Hand. He found Ned Stark in his solar, standing over his desk, holding a heavy ledger and looking profoundly weary.

"Lord Stark," Harry said, shutting the door firmly behind him. "I apologize for the intrusion, but we must speak, and we have little time."

Ned looked up, surprised by the Prince's sudden appearance and intense focus. He quickly tossed the ledger onto the desk, his eyes searching Haridon's face. "Your Grace. The King—"

"The King is dying, Lord Stark. Slowly, painfully, and inevitably," Harry stated, cutting through the pleasantries. "I have no trust in Pycelle's abilities to save him. The matter now is what comes next. And that is why I'm here."