Chapter 68: King Robert
"Your Grace!"
"A cavalry force of four to five hundred riders has arrived near the camp."
"They bear the banner of the direwolf."
"Their leader calls himself Othell and requests an audience."
A guard hurried into the royal pavilion to report to a tall, broad, and heavyset middle-aged man seated within.
A young, scantily clad woman sat upon his lap, lifting a goblet to his lips and feeding him wine, while another traced her hands boldly across his chest. The king laughed indulgently, hands roaming freely in return.
At the report, he finally paused and frowned.
"Othell?"
"A direwolf banner?"
"That would make him one of Ned's men."
He waved lazily. "Bring him in."
The guard bowed and left. Moments later, he returned with Othell in tow.
"Your Grace." Othell knelt and bowed.
"You're Othell?" the king asked, dismissing the women with a flick of his hand.
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Did Ned send you to greet us?"
"No, Your Grace. I was sent by Lord Stark to present evidence to the Iron Throne."
"Evidence?" The king raised a brow. "What evidence?"
"Proof of the White Walkers—and the wights."
Othell then recounted everything that had occurred at the Wall. This time, before the king himself, he did not embellish a single detail.
"White Walkers?" the king repeated skeptically.
"And where is this proof?"
"Bring it here. Let me see what madness Ned is stirring up in the North."
"Your Grace, if you would wait outside the pavilion, I will have the evidence brought at once," Othell replied respectfully.
"Then go. And be quick about it," the king said impatiently, waving him away.
Othell quickly returned to his men and had the wight brought under heavy guard to the royal encampment.
Robert Baratheon was already seated outside his pavilion, waiting with obvious impatience. Cersei Lannister sat nearby with the princes and princess. Several Kingsguard stood watch at either side, while lords and knights, drawn by rumor, gathered in a widening circle.
Othell stepped forward and bowed.
"Your Grace. Your Grace, the Queen. The proof has been brought."
Robert waved eagerly. "Enough talk. Show it!"
Suppressing any resentment, Othell turned and shouted, "Markos—bring it forward!"
Moments later, Markos and four men carried a heavy iron cage into the center of the clearing and set it down before the court.
"Your Grace—behold."
Othell strode forward and pulled away the black cloth covering the cage.
Inside, the wight stirred.
A sharp hiss split the air.
Its icy blue eyes flared to life at the scent of the living. Its withered face twisted, jaw snapping open as it shrieked—a piercing, unnatural sound. Clawed hands scraped and grasped at the bars.
Gasps erupted from the crowd.
"Gods above—what is that?"
"Seven hells!"
"Some kind of demon!"
Those closest stumbled backward in terror.
"Seven bloody hells," Robert muttered, rising to his feet. "Ned wasn't jesting after all."
He turned to Othell. "Open it. Let it out. I'll have a closer look."
"Your Grace, it will attack the moment it sees the living," Othell warned carefully.
Robert snorted. "I was killing men while you were still suckling at your mother's teat. Open it."
With no choice, Othell unlocked the cage. Markos and several others stood ready with dragonglass-tipped spears.
The moment the door creaked open, the wight burst forward with a roar, charging straight at the king—only to be yanked short by the heavy chains binding it.
Screams broke out.
"Protect the king!"
The Kingsguard rushed forward with drawn blades.
Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen fled into Cersei's arms; she steadied them with forced composure. Jaime Lannister moved quickly to her side, murmuring reassurance. Sandor Clegane stood before Prince Joffrey, sword raised, eyes fixed on the thrashing creature.
The wight dragged the cage a short distance as it lunged, chains rattling furiously.
And Robert—laughed.
He waved the Kingsguard aside.
"Fierce little bastard, aren't you? Bring me my hammer!"
A squire hurried forward with a massive warhammer. Robert caught it one-handed, swung it experimentally, and grinned.
"Been too long. Let's see if I still remember how."
He strode toward the monster.
The wight slammed into the cage bars again—just as Robert brought the hammer down.
Crack.
Another blow.
And another.
Bone and rotting flesh shattered. The body split apart and collapsed in pieces across the dirt—yet the severed head still writhed, jaws snapping, issuing hoarse shrieks.
"Damn thing still won't die?" Robert growled.
He stepped forward and smashed the skull flat. Blackened gore splattered outward.
Othell's eye twitched violently.
That wight had been his greatest bargaining chip—his leverage over the lords of the Seven Kingdoms. And now the king had reduced it to scrap in moments. Without it, he doubted he could wring gold or supplies from half the nobles he had frightened into generosity.
But Robert was already tossing the hammer aside and returning to his seat, draining a cup of wine with a satisfied roar.
"Ha! That felt good!"
He looked at Othell. "Doesn't seem so fearsome alone. Was Ned right to make such a fuss?"
Othell forced composure. "Your Grace, one wight is not the danger. An army of them is. Without fortifications, we cannot withstand them in open battle."
"They feel no pain. They do not tire. They do not fear death. Ordinary steel cannot kill them—only dragonglass, Valyrian steel, or fire. Your Grace has seen that for yourself."
Robert nodded slowly. "A nuisance, then."
He drained another cup. "I'll send word to Stannis Baratheon at once. Tell him to mine obsidian at full speed."
Then he turned to the gathered nobles and boomed, "And I'll summon every knight in the Seven Kingdoms to march north and smash these White Walkers myself!"
Othell's heart leapt—and sank at once. The king truly acted on impulse.
He stepped forward cautiously. "Your Grace, summer wanes. Winter approaches. Beyond the Wall will soon be nothing but snow and ice. A great host would suffer terribly in such conditions—supply lines most of all."
Robert waved him off. "Leave the thinking to me. I'll discuss it with Lord Stark at Winterfell."
That was when Cersei rose sharply.
"You mean to drag us to the Wall? These children are still young!"
Her voice rang with fury.
Robert rounded on her. "We are discussing matters of state. Hold your tongue."
"I will not allow you to endanger my children!" she shot back.
"Seven hells—silence, woman!" he roared, then added coldly, "If Joffrey means to sit the Iron Throne one day, he must learn what it means to lead."
Cersei did not yield. Gathering her children, she turned and swept away without another word.
Robert stared after her, rage blazing.
"Bloody bitch!"
"Go on—run back to Casterly Rock!"
"The Iron Throne needs a warrior who leads from the front—not a sniveling boy hiding behind his mother's skirts!"