The bells of the Red Keep tolled.
Their sound was deep and drawn out, like the dying sigh of a giant beyond the Wall, echoing through every street and over every rooftop in King's Landing.
The king was dead.
Inside the Tower of the Hand, Lynn stood by the window, looking down over the city, which had fallen into an eerie silence.
Robert had died a little sooner than he had expected.
He had thought the boar would, at most, grievously wound Robert, leaving him bedridden for ten days or a fortnight, slowly draining his life away through pain and fever.
He had not expected the beast, which Jaqen had fed a little "seasoning" beforehand, to be so ferocious.
After that single strike, Robert had not even lasted two days.
Just as well.
It saved him from having to return and clean up this mess after dealing with matters in the North.
Now everything could be settled before he left King's Landing.
Lynn turned and left the Tower of the Hand.
The atmosphere in the Iron Throne Hall was unbearably oppressive.
Beneath the vast vaulted ceiling stood a menacing throne forged from over a thousand swords.
All the leading members of the Small Council were present.
They had come for that throne that stabbed its occupant in the backside, and for the question of who would sit upon it.
Ned Stark wore a plain black coat and stood in the place reserved for the Hand of the King.
Grand Maester Pycelle hunched his shoulders, the maester's chain marking his station now looking more like a heavy shackle.
Varys, the Spider, stood in the shadows with a compassionate expression on his face, though his hands, hidden beneath his broad sleeves, were unconsciously rubbing together.
Sansa Stark, as Master of Coin,