Snippet #1490447

From his study in the highest tower of the Red Keep, Grand Maester Syrus watched as guards stormed from the great hall, hot in pursuit as they chased the former crown prince, the man who would from now on surely be known as the Kinslayer. He watched as the anguished faces of the Damians crumpled in grief as the queen bled to death on the floor. He watched as Leliana Greyhardt so willingly turned her back on her family in pursuit of a freedom she'd never known. He watched as Lionel fought his way through the castle, snarling like a cornered animal.

He watched, and he wept- for the dead queen, for the wretched king, for the child in Morgana's womb who would never come to be, for young princess and prince who had been given a burden no child should have to bear. But most of all he wept for, Lionel, the Kinslayer, the boy he'd treated as his own son, the boy he'd tried so very hard to comfort and calm when the King turned his back. Why, child? Why couldn't you let go of your anger and forgive? Why did it have to come to this? But he already knew the answer. Lionel wouldn't have survived a day as king, not where he had so many enemies and so little political talent. But in chaos, in war…that was where the prince had thrived. That was where people would follow him, for the enemy of their enemy was their friend. No, it had not been an accident on Lionel's part. He had always wanted enemies. Needed enemies.

He expected they would come for him now. Although he had provided tremendous aid and advice to the King over his fifty years at the Red Keep, it was no small secret that, despite his many faults, Lionel had been much beloved to the old man. They would suspect him of being an informer, a traitor. It pained Maester Syrus's heart to know that it would come to this- especially as he did not know who he would support, if things came to it. He was a servant to the Red Keep, but if Lionel came back to the Red Keep, demanding the heads of his siblings…Maester Syrus truly did not know what he would do. He still saw Lionel as a child- a corrupted, pained child, but one that was not beyond salvation. If only the boy were ten years old again, and Syrus could simply sit him down at a desk and make him recite his lessons until his rage had cooled…but he was seven years too late for that. Lionel had become who he was, and it was impossible to change him now- if he had survived the fall at all.

But he was not about to sit around and let himself be arrested. He would go downstairs and offer what comfort he could, if only to do a last deed of service before the king passed judgment on him.

The servants were gathered in a huddle in the great hall. Several were weeping, others were stony-faced and stoic, while some ladies in waiting had completely lost their heads.

"He's going to kill us all, he is," Megaera cried, tears streaming down her face. "The Kinslayer will kill us all in our sleep."

"Don't be daft," a pug-nosed serving boy said. "The Dornishman stuck a knife in his head and shoved him out a window. They found his body shattered on the rocks."

The words pained Maester Syrus's heart. Were the rumors true? Had Lionel died at the hands of the Dornishman? But the chatter of servants was prone to wild exaggerations and half truths, and he did not put much stock in the word's of a weeping boy. Maester Syrus ignored their squabbling and directed the nearest wench to go prepare several cups of hot, strong wine with a splash of dreamwine, to calm the royal family.

Queen Morgana was an awful sight, lying limp on the floor in a dark pool of crimson. Maester Syrus did not have to check to know that the woman had died; there was no saving her, no healing from the violent blow that had taken her life and her child's. Sprawled near the throne was Ser Henrik and Ser Ydric, both two more victims of Lionel's savagery. Lionel, oh Lionel…what have you done? But now was not the time for tears. Maester Syrus kept his emotions in check and silently wrapped the three bodies in their cloaks. The Silent Sister would tend to the corpses and make them fit for a burial.

And now to attend to the living…

The King seemed more shaken than Maester Syrus had seen him in years. Adelaide, despite her tears, was attempting to bring some order to the situation, trying to be strong in her mother's stead. Raban simply looked shell-shocked. Syrus's heart went out to the two of them. He had always pitied them, always tried to convince Lionel to be kinder to them…Lionel had always been so cruel. He'd taken their freedom, taken their pets, taken their most precious objects, and now he had taken their mother. You monster, did you never feel a shred of remorse for how you treated them? You terrorized them and made their lives a living hell, just because you envied them. Just because they dared to stand up to you.

"Your grace, Prince Raban will need guards. Many of them," Maester Syrus said to King Henry quietly. He doubted the man was in the mood to listen to advice right now, but his words had to be heeded if the Damians didn't want to lose another of their kin. "Lionel will be out for his blood, if he's alive." Speaking of which… "Find the Dornishman who's rumored to have killed the former prince and question him as to what really happened," Syrus said to the closest servant.

The doors to the great hall burst open. A watchboy ran in, wide-eyed. Syrus looked up, wondering what more ill tidings there could possibly be.

"Your Grace. The Greyhardt's fleet. The ships are moving out to sea- one of them, at least."