Robert

"My name is Svemir, one of the last Stormsingers. I've come to undertake my duty, as foretold in the legends."

The Stormsinger said, kneeling in front of Robert. Duty? The legends?

Why does everyone in this godsforsaken continent have to speak with riddles?

The King was very confused, as did everyone around him, so he spoke. "Well met Svemir, I am Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. What brings a man such as yourself in my court? What is this duty you speak of?"

Svemir stood up and answered, "My king, I've come to deliver an ancient relic of house Durrandon, as the legend passed by my family from father to son dictated." He paused, "It is foretold that after the night when the Stars Fall, a great danger shall menace the world. The heir of the Great Stormsinger must bring the ancient weapon of Durran's Godsgrief, so that his descendant, alongside the other Great Champions, may bring the dawn."

Then Svemir grasped the clothed object and extended his hands, offering it to the King. Robert slowly took it and carefully undid the cloth, revealing what it was.

"Behold! Thunderbolt! Ancient war pick of house Durrandon!"

Robert could not believe his eyes. It was truly marvellous: the handle was made of finely forged bronze with thunder motifs spreading in its entirety, the head instead consisted of some strange steel, glittering by the sunlight. It appeared to be extremely light as he gave a few test swings, and it felt somehow right in his grasp.

"It's beautiful." He said, "What is the head made of? I can't recognise the craft." The Stormsinger answered, "Skymetal, this weapon was forged from the heart of a fallen star thousands of years ago. The name of the man who crafted it was lost in time."

Petyr Baelish, Robert's copper counter, interjected, "Skymetal... Dawn, the sword of the Daynes, was forged with it. Your Grace, this war pick may be one of the only other examples of this craft in the entire world. Its monetary value could be used to acquire entire kingdoms..."

Colour me surprised, the Bravoosi had to comment on the market value. Why did I have him in the council again? Gods, even Mace Tyrell would have been more bearable. At least the fool has a melodic voice.

"Lord Baelish, always thinking of earning profit from every trade, don't the lustful expenses of my brother satisfy you?" That cunt of Renly had to comment, "Renly, quit bickering. You're the Master of Laws, you are the last one who should jape without end." Teeth Grinder mumbled. Then that old fool of Pycelle opened his filthy mouth, "But Lord Baelish is correct, the value of such a weapon is extraordinary, perh-"

At this point, Robert just stopped listening. This was becoming embarrassing. He could see Varys on the sidelines chuckling.

Why does this blasted council have to be a mummers show? A Lordling of 4 stones located in the most barren region of Westeros, a professional sword swallower, a man who could grind a sword with only the help of his teeth, an old man that liked shagging young ladies in broad daylight and a cockless wonder from the land of whores. Who approved this small council?

Oh yes, me.

Since when I was blinder than a mole?

"ENOUGH!" Robert shouted while regretting his life choices. Gesturing towards a guard, he barked, "You! Come here, take Thunderbolt to the training grounds. A sparring match is in order." The man at arms took the war pick with more fatigue than Robert expected and slowly strode out of the room towards the courtyard. As he was about to leave, he called out to Svemir, "Stormsinger! Get your ass over here. It's time to spar!"

The man nodded and joined Robert at his side. Well, maybe it was time to lose some fat.

Jon Arryn

Jon gulped some water. Gods, he was lucky to be alive. The poor guardsman did not deserve to die so young and unfairly, but poison did not choose its victims. Jon was sure someone was trying to kill him for knowing the secret of the royal children, perhaps even the queen herself.

What troubles him is that his wife procured that bottle of wine. This means that there was some spy inside his household; otherwise, they would have never been able to drop the toxin in the flagon.

The innocent truly die for the faults of others.

Suddenly, he noticed Svemir approaching him, then murmurs in his ear, "Lord Hand, may we talk somewhere in private? It is of the most importance." Jon nodded gravely, and the two strode into a corridor near the kitchen's storeroom; Jon pushed an odd tile, opening a secret door, and they descended the stairs.

This secret room under the dining hall was safe, but Jon did know not if the Spider knew of this small secret. "So, what do you have to tell me, Stormsinger?" Svemir pierced his look with his dark blue eyes and talked, "The King's children, they aren't his, did you know it?" Jon nodded slowly. Gods, he found out already? Who is this man?

"Aye, but unfortunately, I do not know with who the queen could've copulated. I need more evidence if I wish to expose the affair." He answered, "How did you notice it so quickly?"

The Stormsinger shrugged, "Every descendant of the Great Stormsinger knows that the Durrandon seed is strong. Our line itself is proof." He said while removing his yellow hood at the same time.

"Gods... blue eyes, black of hair... you're a Baratheon too?" Jon said, flabbergasted. The man answered, "Not precisely. The line of the Great Stormsingers merged with the Durrandons centuries ago, hence my looks. Do you remember the legend of Durran Godsgrief, my Lord?"

Jon nodded, and Svemir continued, "Durran won the heart of fair Elenei, daughter of the Storm God and the Goddess of the Sea, and were bound to marry against her parent's wishes. The known legend tells how the Storm God killed all of Durran's family and destroyed his castle over and over in a fit of rage. Still, the true story is quite different: the Storm God decided to test Durran's worth. If he could build a castle that resisted his fury, he would give his blessing to the union. Durran accepted and, with the help of his friend Brandon Starke, known as the Builder, erected a castle that stood its ground against the Storm God's winds. That castle later earned the name of Storm's End. Durran and Elenei married, and all his descendants bore her blood, inheriting her jet black hair and blue eyes."

Jon couldn't believe what he was hearing. If he hadn't seen what happened these last days, he would've dismissed all of this as a mummer's farce, but now that he thinks on it...

"So, the Baratheon bloodline inherited the Durrandon seed from the marriage between Orys and Argella... Gods, this means Robert, Stannis, and Renly have divine blood flowing through their veins..." He was dumbfounded, theoretically speaking, they were demigods...

"Aye, one of my tasks is to bridge the severance caused by the end of the main Durrandon Dynasty, but the cadet branches still live one, house Baratheon being one of them." Svemir said, "This world needs desperate help. The Storm King must be reborn, to become one of the Champions of the Dawn."

By the Seven, he never thought he would live by legendary times. Since The Fall, there was a strange feeling in the air, but he could have never expected it to come to this. Lately, he had weird dreams, it was all muffled, but he could hear a voice calling him out, pleading for him to find someone. What did that mean? Who should he find? Why he, of all people, must experience such visions?

Is this truly the age the Gods will walk among men again?