A deathly silence hung over the Red Keep.
Jaqen had acted swiftly, living up to Lynn's expectations.
Myrcella was packing her belongings.
With her goal now accomplished, she would soon take advantage of the chaos to leave King's Landing with Lynn.
She had no intention of being detained in King's Landing as a "hostage" to threaten Lynn.
Jaqen, Ned, Jaime, and the others were also ready to head north together.
Now the doors to the king's bedchamber were shut tight, keeping out every prying gaze and anxious whisper.
The pungent smell of medicinal herbs seeped through the cracks, enveloping all of Maegor's Holdfast.
Robert Baratheon lay on an enormous bed large enough for three or four whores. His body, once as powerful as a bull, now resembled a mountain in the midst of collapse.
Grand Maester Pycelle had seared shut the huge wound a boar's tusk had torn across his belly with a red-hot iron.
The charred, rotten flesh gave off a sickening burnt stench.
But everyone knew it was futile.
Robert's internal organs had been injured. People in this age did not know what infection was; they knew only that it brought him a relentless fever and unbearable pain.
"Wine..."
Robert's eyes, always so full of lust and temper, were now clouded.
Cersei sat beside the bed, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead with a damp piece of silk.
Her beautiful face wore just the right measure of sorrow and concern.
But deep within her green eyes lay an icy stillness, along with a barely perceptible flicker of delight.
"Robert, darling, Pycelle says you mustn't drink any more wine."
Her voice was dripping with tenderness.
"Get away! You... whore!"
"You want me dead more than anyone!"
Robert roared with all his strength, but his voice was as feeble