The heavy bronze-oak doors of the Throne Room creaked open slowly, releasing a deep, resonant groan that rolled across the hall like distant thunder.
The sound alone was enough to silence the crowd.
Moments earlier, the vast chamber had been filled with murmurs—nobles whispering among themselves, silk rustling, boots shifting across polished stone. But now, all of it vanished.
Hundreds of voices died at once.
Every head turned toward the doors.
Then came the announcement.
"King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men… Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm…"
A pause.
"His Grace, King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name!"
The declaration, delivered by the Gold Cloaks with disciplined precision, seemed to settle over the hall like a mantle of authority.
Reverence followed.
Silence deepened.
Through the open doors, the Kingsguard entered first.
At their head walked Ser Barristan Selmy.
Clad in pristine white armor, his cloak flowing behind him like pale fire, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard moved with quiet dignity. His presence alone commanded respect.
He paused just inside the hall.
His blue eyes swept across the gathered nobles—sharp, observant, yet carrying a faint shadow of melancholy.
Many met his gaze.
Barristan the Bold.
A legend in steel and blood.
For a moment, it was as if time itself slowed.
Then, with practiced grace, he stepped aside and bowed his head.
Heavy footsteps followed.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Each step echoed clearly against the stone floor, reverberating through the chamber.
King Robert Baratheon appeared.
He strode forward along the long crimson carpet, his figure broad and imposing.
A crown of pure gold rested upon his head—crafted in the shape of interlocking antlers, adorned with amber-hued gemstones that gleamed under the torchlight.
His robes were rich and elaborate, woven with threads of gold. A wide silk sash crossed his chest, pinned with a ruby brooch carved into the likeness of a crowned stag.
His thick black beard was neatly trimmed, his long hair pulled back with care.
Despite the years—and the indulgences—there was still something undeniably commanding about him.
Power lingered in his presence.
As he advanced, the nobles bowed deeply.
Eyes lowered.
Breaths held.
Robert's lips curved slightly as he glanced at them.
Whether it was amusement… or disdain… was impossible to tell.
He did not speak.
Instead, he continued forward, ascending the narrow iron steps that led to the throne.
The Iron Throne loomed above the hall—a twisted mass of blades, jagged edges, and cold metal.
Once, dragon skulls had adorned the chamber, relics of Targaryen rule.
Now, they were gone.
In their place hung banners bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
A new era.
A new king.
Robert reached the top, turned, and sat.
The throne seemed to swallow him—yet he filled it all the same.
Resting one arm lazily on the armrest, he waved the other dismissively.
"Rise."
At once, Ser Barristan turned and repeated the command, his voice ringing across the hall.
The nobles straightened.
Among them, Eddard Stark—the Hand of the King—nodded slightly and took his seat near the throne. As a member of the Small Council, he was one of the few permitted to sit in the king's presence.
Beside him sat others of the council.
Including Karl Stone.
When all were settled, the hall fell quiet once more.
Hundreds of eyes turned upward.
All waiting.
All watching.
Robert exhaled, clearly uninterested in ceremony.
"What are we doing now?" he muttered, turning to Eddard.
"I assume you have something prepared."
Eddard gave a slight nod.
He unfurled a scroll.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice steady, "we should first welcome the new Grand Maester appointed by the Citadel."
Robert gestured vaguely.
"Go on."
From among the crowd stepped a man clad in fine green robes.
Maester Payton.
He approached the center of the hall, bowed deeply, and spoke with measured respect.
"Your Grace, I am honored to serve."
Around his neck hung the distinctive chain of a maester—links forged from various metals, each representing a field of knowledge.
Iron.
Gold.
Copper.
Steel.
Even gemstones adorned it, marking specialized disciplines.
It was a symbol of both authority and learning.
Eddard addressed him.
"Welcome, Grand Maester. Please take your seat."
Payton nodded and ascended the platform.
After offering a courteous bow to the assembled nobles, he joined the Small Council.
Karl Stone observed him briefly.
As the youngest member of the council—and a rising figure of influence—Karl had already drawn attention.
Payton, in turn, was equally curious.
But neither spoke.
Not yet.
Robert shifted impatiently.
"Continue, Ned," he muttered. "These clothes are too hot for all this nonsense."
Eddard sighed inwardly.
Then turned.
"Next… the matter of the Victory Martial Games."
At once, attention sharpened.
This was no small topic.
It had been discussed across the Seven Kingdoms.
A grand event.
A spectacle.
A symbol.
Eddard gestured to Karl.
"Ser Karl, please explain."
Karl rose.
Calm.
Prepared.
He stepped forward, documents in hand, and addressed the hall.
"The Victory Martial Games," he began, "will be overseen by a newly established body—the Sports Committee."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
A new concept.
Unfamiliar.
But intriguing.
Karl continued.
"The committee will ensure fairness and impartiality. Its members include Lord Eddard Stark, Ser Barristan Selmy… and others."
"And His Grace King Robert will serve as its chairman."
The murmurs grew louder.
But Karl did not falter.
He explained the rules.
The structure.
The purpose.
Each detail was precise, deliberate.
This was not a whimsical idea.
It was a system.
A carefully constructed plan.
Among the crowd stood Illyrio Mopatis.
The merchant prince watched silently, his eyes narrowing.
He sensed something deeper.
Something… strategic.
And he began to understand why Varys had insisted he attend.
Karl spoke at length.
Too long, perhaps—for Robert.
By the time he finished, the king was nearly asleep.
But then—
"The Martial Games will begin in two weeks," Karl announced.
That caught Robert's attention.
"Finally," he muttered.
Applause broke out.
Not polite applause.
Genuine.
Because the nobles understood.
This was not just a tournament.
It was opportunity.
Five hundred thousand gold dragons in prizes.
Prestige.
Power.
Recognition.
And even though commoners were allowed to participate…
No one truly believed they stood a chance.
Victory, in their minds, already belonged to them.
Karl returned to his seat.
The hall buzzed with excitement.
Until—
"Silence!"
Barristan's voice cut through the noise.
At once, quiet returned.
All eyes turned once more to the throne.
Robert leaned forward.
"So," he said, his tone sharp now, "are we getting to the real matter?"
Eddard hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Robert's expression hardened.
"Bring him in."
A pause.
Then—
"Bring in Tywin Lannister."
The doors opened again.
But this time…
No grandeur followed.
Only chains.
Tywin Lannister entered.
Slowly.
He was still imposing—still proud—but diminished.
His golden beard was unkempt.
His once-perfect appearance… worn.
Iron shackles bound his hands and feet.
The Lion of Lannister…
Had been caged.
The hall watched in silence.
Some with pity.
Others with satisfaction.
Some… with greed.
But Tywin did not react.
He did not look at them.
He did not acknowledge them.
He simply walked.
Step by step.
Until he stood before the Iron Throne.
Karl watched him closely.
Once, Tywin had been untouchable.
A force of nature.
A man whose presence alone commanded obedience.
But now?
He was just a prisoner.
A defeated man.
A fallen lion.
And all that remained…
Was judgment.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)