Game of Thrones: The Storm

S1E10 - Fire and Blood

{} 5 Years After the Sacking of King's Landing {}

Howling winds was what woke you from your light slumber. Not the sound of the rain pouring down outside or the thunder and lightning, but the winds that sounded like wolves in the distance. The night was a cauldron of darkness and storm that Maester Pycelle hadn't predicted. 

Thunder cracked across the sky every few seconds, shaking the walls and echoing through the vast corridors of the Red Keep. Rain beat against the stained-glass windows furiously, like the drumming of war.

The candle in your chamber had long since burned to a nub, and only the flickers of lightning lit the taxidermy stag that was mounted above your bed, creating a haunting shadow on your other walls. Your chest rose and fell in peaceful rhythm nonetheless until the latch on your door creaked.

He moved like a shadow. Silent, deliberate. An assassin cloaked in black from hood to boot. 

He slipped through the door and into the room, a curved blade shining briefly as it caught a flash of lightning. You were his target. The four-year-old bastard daughter of King Robert Baratheon. 

Your little heart raced as you barely looked over your covers, hoping you were imagining the ominous figure that was standing at the foot of your bed, unmoving. His breathing was loud enough for you to hear, even with the storm raging outside. At just four years old, you thought for sure you were dead, but fate has a peculiar sense of timing.

A crash of thunder rocked the foundations of the stout keep once more, and in the King's chambers, your father jolted upright in bed. He was a man carved from war after all, half-asleep and always alert, even with his mind clouded with liquor. Something felt wrong, a pull in his gut. It was almost as stone cold as the rain outside his window. He threw on a cloak and stepped into the hall, war hammer at his side, footsteps hushed on the stone.

When he passed the corridor to the north tower, he noticed it had no Kingsguard standing for the night, and then he heard it.

A whimper. Small, muffled, fearful sound. A child's sound, out of place in such a night. 

"Laramie," he breathed.

The door to your room was ajar.

He rushed forward, slamming the door open with a thunderous crash of his own. Lightning lit the chamber for an instant, enough to see the figure leaning over the bed, blade raised.

"No!"

The assassin turned, but Robert was already there, hammer swinging. The altercation lasted as fast as it started. With one foul swing, your father had bashed the man's head in. Blood and brains scattered your bed and wall as the man's limp body fell at your feet. 

You screamed in terror as Kingsguard rushed in at the sound. Lightning flashed again as Jaime Lannister looked up at the King he had grown to hate, and the shadow of the stag that hung above your bed cast an ominous shadow behind him. 

"Find out how this man snuck into the Red Keep! Or I'll have you all hanged by morning!" Robert yelled at the top of his lungs as the guards scattered to pick up the crumpled man. 

He was at your side in seconds afterward, pulling you into his arms as the storm howled outside.

"It's alright," he whispered, voice shaking with adrenaline. "You're safe now."

And as the rain poured and thunder rolled, Robert sat in silence in the corner of your room as you cried into his shoulder, war hammer leaning against his leg as he patted your back. 

Ser Barristan arrived at your chambers later that same night to report back to your father, but you were both sound asleep in your corner chair. 

There was only one question that remained in Robert's mind that night up until the day he decided to send you away. Who wanted you dead?