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Pat*eon : CaveLeather
Game of Thrones: The Dragon Who Remembers
Game of Thrones: What Must Be Done
"How's that kid holding up? The royal couple's little squire—Lancel?"
It was still the same stinking, dimly lit little room in the fighting pit.
But Lancel noticed that today's stench wasn't quite bad enough to make him puke up his breakfast.
Clearly the smoky smell of potatoes roasting over the fire—courtesy of Iron-Pumping Superman jabbing at them with a poker—had cut through a lot of the rot. Moon-Fang was helping.
Lancel glanced at Iron-Pumping, who didn't even bother looking up as he kept turning the spuds, then quickly dropped his gaze.
"Uh… it's done," he mumbled.
"What?" Iron-Pumping barked.
The door was wide open so the noise from outside drowned out Lancel's quiet voice. They had to leave it like that; otherwise the smoke from roasting potatoes right by the stove would choke the two players out. Even if they were rolling in Kingdom Coins, nobody wanted to waste them on extra respawns.
Lancel jumped at the loud voice. A flood of ugly memories about Robert came rushing back like a reflex.
"It's finished!" he blurted. "The king got gored by a wild boar. He's badly wounded. By the time I left, even the Grand Maester said there was nothing he could do! He… he probably won't last much longer!"
The half-cooked potatoes bounced between Iron-Pumping's hands while he blew on them like crazy.
Moon-Fang had just finished streaming the underground fights and was starving. He snatched one right out of his buddy's grip. "Gimme that!"
Iron-Pumping shook his head with a helpless grin, stood up, and pulled Lancel aside. He grabbed a little stool and motioned for the boy to sit.
Lancel spilled the whole story in fits and starts: how Cersei had seduced and recruited him, how she'd given him the special wine for Robert, how the boar had slammed into the king and torn several bloody holes in his gut, with half a tusk still lodged in his belly.
When he finished, Iron-Pumping let out a low chuckle.
Robert Baratheon—the famous Usurper that pretty much every player had heard of.
Well… almost every player. A few lone-wolf types ignored the plot completely and just treated the whole thing like a pure second-life sim.
Robert who? Never heard of him!
Iron-Pumping was already daydreaming about the fat reward he'd get once the wild boar finally finished the job.
Technically he hadn't killed the guy himself, and the fat bastard wasn't even dead yet. But Lancel? Lancel was now his asset. The kid had dirt that could destroy him, and he was working directly for the players now.
Iron-Pumping had already asked the greedy little fire creature in the shop multiple times. The system had confirmed it: when the target died, the man pulling the strings in the shadows still got a nice cut of the rewards.
He stood up and clapped Lancel on the shoulder. "All right. That fat fuck won't be around much longer. No more daily slaps from the king. You can finally breathe easy. Head on back."
"Huh? When are you sending me across the Narrow Sea?"
Lancel clearly remembered the promise: once it was done, they'd smuggle him to Essos and set him up with a decent job.
Right now Lancel didn't give a damn about being a Lannister anymore. Every second he was terrified that Robert might survive and take it out on him—or that Cersei would have him killed to tie up loose ends. As far as she knew, only the two of them were in on the murder plot. She wouldn't hesitate just because his father was her uncle Kevan.
"No," Iron-Pumping said firmly. "You can't leave yet. I still need you. You're gonna keep being my eyes and ears inside the Red Keep. Don't worry—I'll keep you safe."
A golden informant like this? No way Iron-Pumping was letting him go. They were going to squeeze every last drop out of the kid.
"No! No way! You promised!" Lancel shook his head like a rattle. "You said you'd get me out of King's Landing and send me to Essos!"
Iron-Pumping's face darkened. He stepped forward and hooked a thick arm around Lancel's neck. "Have I been too nice to you? You think because I smile a lot I'm some fucking Buddhist monk who won't get his hands dirty?"
Lancel obviously didn't understand the reference, but the threat was crystal clear.
The young Lannister looked like he was about to cry. Why the hell am I so unlucky?!
At the same time Moon-Fang stood up, still chewing potatoes, and strolled over swinging the glowing-red fire poker. He stopped it less than two inches from Lancel's eye.
"Kid, you ever smelled burning eyeballs before?" Moon-Fang asked in a creepy, deadpan voice like some psycho patient.
Lancel shuddered hard and didn't dare say another word of refusal.
"Relax. We'll keep you safe. And once Robert's dead, what the fuck do you even have to worry about?" Iron-Pumping moved behind Lancel, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder and speaking softly.
Lancel looked at the crazy-eyed Moon-Fang, opened his mouth… then dropped his head. After a long pause he finally muttered, "…Okay."
"What if the fat bastard doesn't die?" Moon-Fang asked after Rorge had led Lancel out. He tossed the poker aside.
"If he doesn't die? Then this unlucky kid keeps working until the bastard does," Iron-Pumping said with a shrug, heading back into the room.
---
In the end, Robert did die.
After Barristan and the others carried him back to the Red Keep, he never woke up again. He lingered unconscious until his wounds finally killed him.
Cersei wasted no time. With a cold expression she dragged her son Joffrey onto the Iron Throne.
The Kingsguard stood at the base of the steps. Cersei positioned herself to the left of the throne, while Joffrey's personal bodyguard—the Hound, Sandor Clegane—stood to the right.
Even though she had helped kill the king, the new Grand Maester Pycelle had somehow earned her favor. He was the one reading the late king's will aloud to the assembled court.
Of course the so-called will was completely forged by Cersei herself. Robert had never regained consciousness—there was no way the lords could prop up a dying man and make him write a will before he passed.
Still, since Joffrey was the king's legitimate heir, none of the lords raised any real objection to Cersei acting on his behalf.