Blue Star, August 24, 2025. Aegon's Calendar 297, August 24.
That afternoon, sunlight poured through the tall stained-glass windows of the Red Keep's council chamber, casting colorful beams across the hall. Yet it could not dispel the inherent chill and the faint tallic scent of rust that clung to the stone walls.
Guided by a court attendant, Luke stepped into the heart of power in the Seven Kingdoms — the Throne Room.
Bronn was ordered to wait outside in the antechamber.
Beneath the Iron Throne sat King Robert Baratheon, his massive body slumped in the seat like a mountain. His face was flushed red, his bulbous drinker's nose especially prominent.
Instead of a scepter, he held a half-empty bottle of "Dragon Fla" — one of the premium products from Luke's "Magic Goblet" tavern.
The Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish, stood to the left of the throne steps, a faint, knowing smile on his lips.
The Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, stood to the right, his aged face grave, brows furrowed as though he were forever pondering so difficult problem.
Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood beside the throne in his white armor like a silent statue.
The air was thick with the scents of power, calculation, and strong liquor.
"Your Grace, Luke Jaqenion has arrived," the attendant announced loudly.
Luke stepped forward, stopped at a respectful distance from the Iron Throne, placed his right hand over his heart, and knelt on one knee. His movents were smooth and proper. "Luke Jaqenion, here to pay respects to Your Grace."
Robert looked him over with bleary, drunken eyes, let out a vague grunt, then took a heavy swig from the bottle before speaking in his rough, booming voice: "Rise, rise! Let get a proper look at the 'magic rchant' who's been filling King's Landing with the scent of fine wine lately!"
Luke stood as instructed, standing straight and neither humble nor arrogant, allowing Robert to examine him.
He wore a tasteful yet not overly luxurious dark-blue velvet doublet. His black hair was neatly combed, his face young and handso, his posture upright — a striking contrast to the many pot-bellied or decrepit nobles around him.
"By the Seven!"
Robert shook the bottle in his hand and pointed at Luke, speaking to Jon Arryn and Petyr beside him: "He looks like a spirited lad! So this is the one who supplies with all that excellent wine every month? Jon, do you believe this is magic?"
Jon Arryn's frown deepened. His sharp gaze swept over Luke as he replied gravely: "Your Grace, there may be crafts or secret recipes from distant eastern lands that we do not understand, but magic…"
He shook his head, clearly unconvinced.
Luke spoke at the right mont, his voice clear and steady: "Your Grace, Lord Jon is correct. It is not true magic — rely so special techniques and minor tricks from across the Narrow Sea and even farther east, which my family has accidentally acquired and refined."
"The Jaqenion family is willing to supply all its goods to you first, and at a permanent price thirty percent below market value, as a token of respect and loyalty to the Iron Throne."
"Hahaha!"
Robert clearly didn't care whether it was "magic" or "technique." He only heard "good wine" and "low price." His booming laughter echoed through the council chamber.
"Good! Well said! I don't care how you make it or brew it — as long as the wine keeps coming! Petyr told you're willing to supply the royal household with fifty bottles of that… that strongest one, 'Dragon Fla,' every month?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Luke said, bowing slightly.
"Excellent! Splendid!"
Robert looked extrely pleased. He took another swig, then staggered to his feet from the Iron Throne.
His enormous body required Ser Barristan to discreetly steady him with a light touch before he could stand properly.
He shuffled down the steps in his slippers, his huge belly leading the way, and ca to a stop in front of Luke, reeking of alcohol. He gave Luke's shoulder a heavy slap.
"Lad! I like the look of you! A king does not mistreat anyone who has done the crown a service! Especially soone who lets drink to my heart's content!"
Robert waved his hand grandly, exuding the unquestionable authority of a king, despite his drunken state.
"I, Robert Baratheon the First, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First n, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, hereby bestow upon you, Luke Jaqenion, the title of Baron of White Stone! Your lands lie in the Riverlands, on the southern shore of the God's Eye Lake — White Stone Town and its surrounding areas… ahem, Petyr will give you the exact boundaries!"
Although he had been ntally prepared, hearing the formal bestowal still made Luke's heart skip a beat.
He imdiately knelt on one knee again, placed his right fist over his left chest, and lowered his head as he declared loudly: "I, Luke Jaqenion, hereby swear fealty to you, Robert Baratheon the First, King. From this day forward, my sword shall strike for you, my loyalty shall belong to you alone. The Jaqenion family shall serve you faithfully!"
The oath followed the standard format, but the object of loyalty was deliberately changed to "Robert himself" rather than the royal house or the Iron Throne.
Once Robert was dead… he would no longer serve.
"Rise, Lord Baron!"
Robert seed to have completed a task that greatly pleased him. He waved dismissively, then shuffled back to the Iron Throne and eagerly reached for his bottle again.
Jon Arryn watched the scene with deepening worry in his eyes, yet he did not voice any objection.
Using the title of a minor baron and a remote, troubled piece of land in exchange for a steady, cheap supply of top-quality wine to replenish the royal cellars — while also padding the treasury a little — seed like a reasonable deal in these tis when the crown's finances were stretched thin.
It was rather amusing, really. No noble had ever given the king gold dragons before!
He was far more concerned with the matter of Robert's children!
He simply gave this newly titled, mysterious young baron a long, thoughtful look.
The ceremony was simple, even sowhat perfunctory, but the witness of the Red Keep's council chamber gave it unquestionable legitimacy.
Luke bowed respectfully and withdrew. As he turned to leave, he could feel several gazes of varying intent on his back.
Just as he stepped out of the main doors of the council chamber into the relatively open corridor, a voice called out to him.
"Lord Jaqenion, a mont please."
Luke turned and saw Petyr Baelish standing there with a pleasant smile, as if he had simply happened to be passing by.
"Lord Baelish." Luke bowed politely, his face showing perfectly asured gratitude. "Thank you for your assistance. Without your diation, I could not have gained His Grace's favor and this title so smoothly."
"Ho," Petyr chuckled softly and waved a hand in an elegant gesture. "This was due to your own 'ability,' Lord Baron. The fa of 'Dragon Fla' has already spread throughout King's Landing — even to Storm's End and Casterly Rock, people are inquiring about it. Fifty bottles every month? That's worth fifty thousand gold dragons. His Grace is pleased, and the treasury can breathe a little easier. We each take what we need, don't we?"
His smile and words were flawless, but the glint in those gray-green eyes made it clear that Petyr understood exactly how much advantage Luke had gained from this "mutually beneficial" arrangent.
A genuine noble title and fief — no matter how remote — carried far greater symbolic and potential value than the monthly supply of wine.
Petyr had been willing to facilitate this not only for the obvious gold and goods (the regular tribute Luke sent him), but also because of the "allegiance" Luke had subtly expressed during their previous etings.
A "rchant" who could bring novel goods, massive profits, and "magical" thods was a useful piece worth recruiting and utilizing for an ambitious man like Littlefinger, who was busy weaving his own web of power.
Whether Luke was truly loyal? Petyr didn't care — as long as the benefits kept flowing and the man appeared "sensible."
The more chaos, the better!
He was actually hoping Luke would stir up even more trouble!
"Lord Baelish is right," Luke replied smoothly, then lowered his voice. "As agreed, every month I will have soone deliver ten bottles of the finest 'Dragon Fla' along with so other novel items to your residence on ti. Additionally, regarding my new fief of White Stone Town… I hear the area is underdeveloped and short on manpower."
"I wish to recruit so refugees, bankrupt farrs, and even a few 'free folk' with clean hands and feet to accompany in developing the lands and increasing the population. I wonder if Your Lordship could do the favor of putting in a good word with the relevant offices and the City Watch?"
Luke's new fief lay on the southern shore of the God's Eye Lake — a sparsely populated region teeming with bandits.
He genuinely needed people to develop this valuable land.
At the sa ti, this was a deliberate show of deference and reliance toward Petyr — See, even after becoming a baron, I still need to rely on you to get things done in King's Landing.
Petyr's smile deepened. He seed very satisfied with Luke's "understanding" and "sensibility."
He stroked his neatly trimd goatee and said unhurriedly: "It is a good thing for a lord to wish to develop his fief, Lord Baron. The realm benefits from diligent nobles like yourself. Recruiting manpower is naturally no problem. I will speak to the relevant people."
His tone suddenly beca more aningful: "However, the southern shore of the God's Eye, White Stone Town… well, the scenery is nice, but it is not exactly peaceful. At the crossroads of the three rivers, it is a mixed bag of fish and dragons. I hear bandits and outlaws are quite rampant there. When you go, Lord Baron, it would be best to bring plenty of reliable n and keep a close eye on your lands — especially the roads leading toward Harrenhal."
Harrenhal!
The largest and most famous castle in the Riverlands, nominally under royal control but with weak actual authority. The surrounding area was indeed a gray zone infiltrated by bandits, wildlings, and various factions.
Petyr's words were almost an open hint: I helped you gain the title and land. In return, you will keep an eye on the Harrenhal direction for — or, in certain situations, serve as a potential foothold for in the Riverlands.
Luke imdiately adopted an expression of understanding, even a touch of nervousness and gratitude: "Lord Baelish's reminder is tily! I understand! Please rest assured — now that the Jaqenion family has taken root there, we will do everything in our power to safeguard the lands granted by His Grace, as well as… the peace of the neighboring regions."
He deliberately emphasized the words "neighboring regions."
Petyr nodded in satisfaction, chatted idly for a few more monts, then turned and left with light steps, as if he had rely enjoyed a pleasant everyday conversation.
Luke watched him go. Just as he was about to continue on his way, another figure blocked his path.
This ti, the newcor was tall and straight, wearing elegant Lannister crimson-and-gold attire. His golden curls frad a handso face that wore a roguish smile mixed with open scrutiny and contempt.
"Ser Jai Lannister," Luke stopped and nodded politely in greeting.
The Kingslayer, Cersei's twin brother and lover, the future "Kingslayer" and "One-Handed" — at this mont still a proud mber of the Kingsguard.
Jai did not return the greeting imdiately. He stood with arms crossed, looking Luke up and down. Those blue eyes glittered with a mix of curiosity and disdain.
"So you're the new 'Lord Jaqenion,'" he said, his voice carrying its usual lazy drawl. "You bought yourself a title and a fief from the king with those flashy little 'magic' trinkets? Quite the… interesting transaction."
His words carried clear mockery, directly pointing out the "impure" origin of Luke's title.
In a noble world that valued bloodline, battle achievents, and inheritance, obtaining a title through money and goods was indeed looked down upon by many old-family nobles, who saw it as tarnishing the honor of nobility.
Luke's expression remained unchanged. He t Jai's gaze and replied calmly: "Ser Jai, are you saying that only rewards gained through blood and fire, or through hereditary succession, are legitimate?"
"Isn't that the case?"
Jai raised an eyebrow, finding this newly titled baron sowhat interesting for daring to question him.
"Then…"
Luke's tone remained steady, yet carried a sharp edge: "Many nobles inherit everything at birth — castles, lands, titles, wealth. Have they ever shed a single drop of blood or experienced the 'blood and fire' you speak of?"
"On what grounds do they mock those who obtain rewards through other ans — comrce, skill, or… loyal service?"
He paused, observing the subtle change in Jai's expression, and continued: "I recall that the rise of House Lannister of Casterly Rock also relied heavily on shrewd trade and gold-mine operations before the words 'Hear Roar.' Comrce is one of the foundations of House Lannister."
"Otherwise, how could you boast 'A Lannister always pays his debts'!"
Jai Lannister clearly had not expected Luke to counter so directly — and to bring up the Lannisters' own "old roots."
The contempt on his face stiffened for a mont, then turned into deeper curiosity and a hint of offended displeasure.
He could not refute Luke's point about "hereditary nobles who never experienced blood and fire," and the origin of the Lannister fortune was an undeniable fact.
He narrowed his eyes, re-evaluating the young baron before him.
Not only did the man have money — or rather, the ability to procure rare and novel items — he also possessed unusual courage and eloquence.
"Ho, sharp-tongued."
Jai gave a soft snort, apparently unwilling to continue the verbal spar. Instead, he asked a seemingly casual but probing question: "So, newly minted Lord Jaqenion, what is your family's words? Every proper house should have one."
This was a crucial question.
A family's words often represented its values, history, or ambitions.
Luke answered without the slightest hesitation. eting Jai's gaze, he spoke clearly and forcefully:
"By Virtue, We Rise."
Jai Lannister was visibly stunned.
He had expected all sorts of answers — words related to wealth, magic, loyalty, or even ambition — but he had never imagined sothing so… filled with foreign philosophy and strangely arrogant.
By Virtue, We Rise?
Using virtue to make others submit?
In a world like Westeros — one that followed the principles of "might makes right," "a Lannister always pays his debts," and "Hear Roar" — this motto sounded both naïve and strangely… arrogant.
It seed to say: I don't need swords and fire. My virtue alone is enough to make n bow.
Jai chewed on the four words. The mockery on his face slowly faded, replaced by a complex, hard-to-read expression.
He gave Luke a long, deep look. In the end he said nothing, only curled his lips into a cryptic smile, stepped aside, and let him pass.
Luke nodded slightly, said no more, and walked away with Bronn, leaving the Red Keep with calm, asured steps.
Behind him, Jai Lannister remained standing in place, watching Luke's retreating figure. His fingers unconsciously stroked the hilt of his sword as he murmured to himself, as if speaking to no one in particular: "By Virtue, We Rise? Jaqenion… an interesting fellow. I hope your 'virtue' works just as well against the bandits and the 'Blackfish' in the Riverlands."
The sunlight stretched his shadow long, intertwining with the shadows of the ancient stone walls of the Red Keep.
The winds of King's Landing seed to carry a new, unpredictable scent.
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