Break the Wrist

He carried in his head the information that contained the destructions of every man, woman, and child that ever vied for or otherwise sought to harm the crown. For fifty five years of life the man who was called Baelor Targaryen had used his five senses to know the world and his sixth to answer it.
    Arkas Baratheon had been named Hand of the King and Baelor thought that a stark mistake. There was no reason to pull in that favor when the candidate knew not what Baelor knew. Jae was a sickly man, though, and though he had two heads his illness had caused the third to waste away. He kept not the dragon claw on the throats of the Westerosi lords. Because of this, everyone Baelor knew would die. Conscripted into wars to fight men from half across the world, the smallfolk of Westeros were reduced to cannon fodder and faceless numbers.
    In the north, Daeron built up an army that he proclaimed to love. Yet in the Small Council he had led a man straight to his death for no reason other than to shove his cock into the wet-pussied egos of the other lords. This was someone that Arkas was willing to give a chance too. Baelor thought that, too, a stark mistake.
    He sat in the office of the Hand of the King. With one hand he stoked the fireplace. The metal poker was made of brass but it was black half up its length and the wooden handle was cracked. Baelor saw the flames leap out and spit embers at him angrily, as if some dragon on the inside was angry for him constantly disturbing its sleep. A red hue filled the room. With the sun setting in the east, Arkas’s chamber appeared as if it were suffocating in a glowing fog of blood. Even Baelor’s hair, a platinum-silver like his brother’s once was, turned the lustful pink-red of dusk.
    Two swords were propped against the table beside Baelor.
    The door opened.