The Seastone Chair was cut from a single piece of stone the color of black ink, shaped into an enormous kraken. Balon Greyjoy stood before it, tall and dark-haired, with sharp dark eyes and a face with a striking jaw, his brother Victarion Greyjoy at his side. Alive and apparently unhard, which ant he had managed to escape after the defeat.
"How dare you crown yourself?!" That kind of audacity belonged to Oberyn alone, and yet here it was.
"I am Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, and you are a rebel!" Robert's proclamation filled the hall.
"Save that for the others! I swore no oaths!" Even beaten, Balon was not lacking in boldness.
"Surrender and swear your oaths." Ned stepped in. "You have lost."
"Robert, these people have been robbing the Westerlands, the Reach, and the Riverlands for centuries. We are so close to being done with it. There is no reason to spare them. This weed needs to be pulled out by the roots." Only the Kingslayer caught my wordplay. He was already smiling over there.
"And kill so many fine warriors who gave such a good fight?" Robert, please, not right now. "They fought well! I am offering you one last chance. Bend the knee, Balon Greyjoy. Acknowledge as your king. You have kept your honor and your dignity." Why in hell did his sense of warrior's honor have to wake up at this particular mont?
Balon Greyjoy made a show of deliberating, but before long he lifted the crown from his head and went to his knees.
"I, Balon Greyjoy, swear fealty to His Grace Robert Baratheon, First of His Na, Protector of the Realm, Lord of the Andals, the First n, and the Rhoynar. I swear eternal loyalty to you and your descendants until my last breath."
...
The Westerlands. Casterly Rock. 289 A.C.
Axel Arryn / The Witch-king of Angmar.
Idiocy. That was the only word for the outco of this rebellion. Problems need to be solved, not buried. Most of the driving forces behind the revolt had survived and kept their positions, and that was a problem. The Ironborn were one great ongoing problem. Give them ten years and they would be ready to rise again. Robert had rejected the Lannister demand for the surrender of Victarion Greyjoy, and he had done it purely out of spite toward the Old Lion.
On the brighter side, Robert had knighted on the spot in the throne room of Pyke. I was now Ser Axel Arryn. The title was useless, but it added a small incrent to one's standing. Though in truth, Oberyn had been offering to knight ever since the desert nomad raid, and I had consistently refused. I had no desire to receive my spurs for killing a pack of bandits.
My mood lifted sowhat after that, but Ned destroyed it with a single sentence. He himself proposed taking Balon's youngest child as a ward and hostage. Stark probably did not even understand how unpleasant that was for . He had no ti for a friend, practically a brother, but for a squid's whelp he found it readily enough. It was a slap in the face, and it finished off whatever warmth I still had for him.
To mark the brilliant conclusion of the war Robert decided to throw a tournant. And since Lord Tywin would be sponsoring it, the king denied himself nothing. Enormous prizes for the victor, thirty courses at the feast, every entertainnt and pleasure imaginable.
While Casterly Rock was preparing for the tournant, the royal family chose to attend in full. Queen Cersei had not changed in the slightest, perhaps her chest was fuller and her hips wider. Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon was with her. Well. I understood all the rumours very well by now. The prince was the image of a Lannister. There was not a trace of Baratheon in him.
I entered the archery competition and the mounted joust. In the first I won easily enough and collected my ten thousand gold dragons. The elves had not trained with a bow for nothing. In the joust I was knocked out in the round of sixteen by Jai Lannister. To be honest, I am not particularly good with a lance. Not enough practice, since I had trained in other directions.
My faithful Annatar was not with either, the horse I had bred myself. His mother had been a Dornish mare, my experint in breeding a Morgul horse. I had used alchemical preparations and magic to alter her. It had only partially worked. Later she foaled, and on her colt I completed the experint. That was how I acquired my warhorse, nad Annatar. The Dornish had tried to persuade to breed from him, but I was unmovable on that.
Despite the wealth of celebrated fighters present, the winner of the joust was Jorah Mormont. The Queen of Love and Beauty he crowned was Lynesse Hightower. A rather beautiful woman, frivolous and haughty, with straw-colored hair and piercing blue eyes. Mormont imdiately requested her hand, and Lord Hightower agreed with unusual speed. Too quickly, in my view. After asking around, the picture beca clear: Lord Hightower had long since despaired of marrying her off.
With my curiosity satisfied I went off to attend to my favorite occupations, which is to say eating, drinking, and bedding won.
...
"And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that lord of Castare…." God, the room is spinning.
The brief loss of clarity of mind had been worth it, drinking with my new companions, and the trip to the brothel had cented the friendship. They did run out of steam rather quickly, but no matter. We had agreed to et in three days to spar and feel our... what was the word? Right. Feel our ttle.
"La-la-laaaa, la-la-la-lalalaaa, oh!" A maidservant of unearthly beauty was coming down the corridor. "Wait, lovely, what is your na?"
And she really was lovely. Golden hair, blue eyes, a slender waist, a generous chest, and magnificent hips on long legs. I could not understand why no one had snapped her up already.
"My na is Cerenna, my lord." A small curtsy, like a proper lady. "I can see you are unwell. May I be of any assistance?"
Adorable. I want her.
"My lady, would you do the honor of seeing to my chambers?"
"With pleasure, my lord." Normally it takes considerably longer to bring a lady around.
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