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The afternoon sun generously bathed the vast courtyard outside the Red Keep. A grand wedding feast was underway, its extravagance a perfect display of the new King's grandeur and the Lannisters' wealth.
The long banquet tables were draped in pristine white linen, laden with what looked like an exposition of the Seven Kingdoms' bounty.
From the North came venison roasted with heavy spices, glistening and fragrant; wines of various vintages from the Reach swirled like liquid gems in crystal goblets; olives and cheeses from the Arbor were piled high on silver platters; Dornish dishes wafted a spicy aroma that made one's mouth water; the golden Kraken Red wine of the Iron Islands perfumed the courtyard; and mounds of fluffy, golden honey cakes from King's Landing rose like small hills.
The air was thick with the tantalizing scent of food and the intoxicating fumes of wine.
Musicians played light, melodious tunes under the pavilions in the courtyard corners, weaving the boldness of "The Stag's Song" with the lingering romance of "The Song of Love."
Bards strummed their strings, singing improvised ballads about the "Hero King and Peerless Queen."
Nobles in splendid attire fluttered like colorful butterflies, dancing in the cleared spaces or raising toasts in small groups, chatting and laughing. Commoners allowed into the outer perimeter squeezed against the railings, eyes wide, marveling at royal luxury they would likely never see again.
To add to the merriment, jesters and fools performed vigorously. One comically dressed as the late Prince Rhaegar, bare-assed and fleeing in hideous panic; another wore exaggerated antlers and wielded a large inflatable leather hammer, chasing majestically. With exaggerated movements, they mimicked the Battle of the Trident that decided the dynasty's fate. Their clumsy and hilarious antics drew wave after wave of laughter from the crowd.
Robert and Cersei sat high on the dais at the front of the feast.
Robert drank deeply from his cup of rich red wine, looking at the scene of joy and laughter set for him. A surge of smug pride filled his chest. His rugged face glowed red with satisfaction, and he frequently shouted approval for a brilliant performance or a lively tune. Beside him, Cersei maintained impeccable queenly poise, her long golden hair shining in the sun. Whether the depths of her emerald eyes burned as hot as the festive atmosphere, no one knew.
As the atmosphere heated up, Lord Tywin, father of the Queen, stepped forward slowly to present House Lannister's gift to the new King. An attendant brought forward a tray lined with dark velvet, upon which lay a breathtakingly exquisite dagger.
The hilt was carved from warm ivory, perfectly curved to fit the palm; a massive, perfectly cut sapphire was set in the pommel, refracting deep, cold light in the sun; the blade was entirely gold-plated, shining with a luxurious luster that made it look more like art than a weapon. This gift not only displayed the staggering wealth of the Westerlands but was itself a priceless treasure.
"May this blade clear all thorns from Your Grace's path." Tywin's voice was calm and level, devoid of enthusiastic warmth, sounding more like a formulaic wish.
Robert, in high spirits, took the overly ornate dagger, toyed with it briefly, then laughed loudly and set it aside. He clearly didn't ponder any deeper meaning behind the gift, only feeling that a return favor was in order.
"Thank you for your gift, Lord Tywin!" His booming voice drowned out some of the banquet's noise. "In return... I name Ser Ilyn Payne as the King's Justice!"
To others, this appointment seemed sudden, but it was actually a reward pre-planned with the Hand of the King. Ser Ilyn Payne, a knight known for his silence and loyal sword, thus took over the duty of royal executioner.
When it was Eddard Stark's turn to present his gift, two Northern guards struggled to lead forward a magnificent warhorse. Its coat was black and sleek as midnight oil, save for four snow-white hooves as if it trod on clouds. Its muscles were fluid and explosive, its neck held high, and unyielding wild fire burned in its eyes.
"Gods!!" Robert's eyes lit up instantly upon seeing the horse. He sprang from the throne, slapping his thigh in excitement. "Now this is a mount fit for a king!" He rubbed his hands together, itching to mount immediately and gallop wildly across the fields of King's Landing.
"Your Grace." Hand of the King Jon Arryn coughed lightly at the right moment, casting a warning and reminding glance. Robert's soaring enthusiasm was pricked. He looked at the grand feast and the hall full of nobles, then sat back down on the throne sheepishly and somewhat reluctantly, though his gaze remained glued to the steed.
This heavy gift was worth a fortune. Eddard had spent nearly a hundred thousand Gold Dragons, specifically commissioning Euron, who controlled the sea routes, to travel to the Dothraki Sea across the Narrow Sea and purchase it from a famous Khal. The thought and cost far exceeded the ordinary.
In a great mood, Robert naturally wanted to give his best friend the grandest response. He dropped his joking demeanor and, with the solemnity of a king, announced loudly:
"Eddard Stark, my loyal brother and most trusted partner! Today, I, Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, formally name you Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell!"
Although Ned had returned to the North after the Usurper's War to inherit his father's and brother's titles and duties, it was only now, at the King's coronation wedding, that he received the formal, public investiture from the Iron Throne. This procedure gave House Stark's rule over the North an undisputed legal foundation.
When Euron Greyjoy stepped forward slowly, four strong Ironborn carried a massive bronze chest into the center of the feast, their heavy footsteps echoing.
The chest was embossed with the crowned stag of House Baratheon, shining brightly in the sun.
The moment the lid opened, the surrounding noise seemed to hush. Lying on dark crimson velvet was a warhammer, dark and seemingly light-absorbing. It had little decoration, but its fluid, powerful lines and the raw, cold intimidation inherent in the metal made anyone who knew weapons hold their breath.
Euron's voice was calm but carried clearly across the venue. "This hammer is forged primarily from star-fallen meteorite iron and cold iron from beneath the abyssal sea. Forged by master smiths of Qohor, folded a thousand times, beaten ten thousand times." He paused slightly, delivering the key sentence. "Its toughness is such that even the sharpest Valyrian steel sword in the world cannot harm it in the slightest."
"Good!!"
Robert's shout exploded like thunder. He practically bounced off the throne, striding to the bronze chest, his eyes bursting with the ecstatic light of discovering a rare treasure. He reached out a thick hand, grabbed the haft, and with a little force, lifted the heavy warhammer steadily, feeling the balance perfectly suited to his strength and the reassuring weight in his palm.
For a warrior king famous across the Seven Kingdoms for his prowess, gold, jewels, fine clothes, and lands were valuable, but none compared to a divine weapon that truly resonated with his soul. He stroked the cold hammerhead lovingly, his face radiating pure, burning joy—the highest praise for this gift that perfectly fit his heart.
The playful look vanished from King Robert's face. He pushed aside his heavy chair and stood like a mountain. Every step solid and powerful, he walked to the center of the hall to face Euron.
His voice boomed like a war drum, no longer casual as in drinking, but solemn with the memory of tumultuous times, echoing clearly in every corner.
"At the Tourney at Harrenhal, you won the melee in an unmatched display, and led your team to claim the laurels of the Group Melee!" His words pulled everyone's thoughts back to that era of shining stars.
"When we resolved to overthrow the Mad King's tyranny, you were one of the earliest initiators, swearing oaths with us!" He continued, his gaze burning as if piercing through time. "When war began, we bled side by side—three victories in one day at Summerhall, fighting out of the encirclement at Stoney Sept amidst the bells, the siege of Harrenhal together, and the fateful Trident... On a battlefield of a hundred thousand, you never took a step back! It was us, together, who ended the rule of the Targaryen dynasty!"
He took a deep breath, speaking words long brewed. "Though you are not a knight in the traditional sense, sworn to no lord, your valor, your honor, your virtue, and glory proved everything on the battlefield, far outweighing what any sigil or oath could bestow!"
Finally, Robert's gaze grew distant, mentioning a seemingly old but crucial agreement. "I remember... once on Tarth, you had a 'Knight's Pact' with the Sapphire of Tarth."
Euron smiled and nodded. Brienne, the Sapphire of Tarth, was in the crowd, her face flushing red.
Robert's voice was like thunder, carrying unquestionable royal authority. "Now, kneel! Euron Greyjoy!"
Euron: "..." His body remained motionless, like a statue carved from sea stone.
Robert's patience wore thin quickly in the silence. He roared roughly, with the unquestionable temper of a king. "Damn it! I am the King! Kneeling won't kill you!"
Hearing this familiar, boorish yet intimate urging, a helpless, wry smile crossed Euron's face. Finally, he stopped resisting. Bending his right knee, he knelt steadily before Robert, lowering the head he never easily bowed.
Seeing this, Robert grinned with satisfaction. He habitually reached for his waist but grasped air—he wasn't wearing his sword. He immediately shouted impatiently, "Sword!"
Nearest to him, Jaime Lannister reacted almost reflexively. With a shwing, he drew his ornately decorated longsword and presented it to the King with both hands.
Robert gave it one glance, and undisguised contempt flashed in his eyes. His booming voice dripped with biting mockery. "Is the Kingslayer's sword fit to knight the strongest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms!?"
The sentence was a poisoned dagger stabbing deep into Jaime's heart. His handsome face instantly lost color, turning hideous. His knuckles whitened around the hilt, but in the end, he said nothing, silently withdrawing the sword.
"Barristan!" Robert ignored him, shouting instead.
Ser Barristan "The Bold" Selmy, standing solemnly nearby, immediately stepped forward. With fluid and dignified movements, he unbuckled his own longsword—weathered by battle, a symbol of glory and protection—and held it flat with both hands, respectfully presenting it to the King.
Robert gripped the sword Barristan offered. The cold touch and familiar weight made his wild expression recede slightly, replaced by a look belonging to a king and warrior, mixing solemnity and memory. Looking down at the kneeling Euron, his booming voice rang through the feast like a proclamation of law.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." The flat of the blade tapped Euron's right shoulder, whistling slightly.
"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just." The blade moved to the left shoulder, steady and strong.
"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent."
"In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women."
"In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be loyal to your duty."
"In the name of the Crone, I charge you to have wisdom."
With each vow recited, the blade bearing Barristan the Bold's lifelong glory touched Euron's shoulder. This ancient Andal ceremony, performed between an Ironborn and a King famous for his warhammer, was exceptionally striking.
Finally, Robert rested the tip of the sword gently on Euron's head. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if speaking only to Euron, yet loud enough for those nearby to hear.
"Euron Greyjoy. Rise, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. Heh, you are the first knight I, as King, have ever dubbed!"
Euron rose as bid, his gaze calm. He smiled. "That is truly my honor."
Robert was not done. He withdrew the sword, resting its point on the ground, hands folded over the pommel. Straightening his body, he scanned the assembled nobles, his voice rising again like announcing a new conquest. "However, the honor of a knight is far from the full reward for your deeds!"
He paused, ensuring everyone's attention was focused. "Harrenhal—that massive fortress built by Harren the Black, large enough to house the entire army of Westeros, the castle that witnessed the rise and fall of the Targaryen dynasty in fire!" His arm swept violently toward the north, as if the magnificent ruin were right before his eyes. "It should no longer lie in waste, silent among the ghosts of the past!"
His gaze locked back onto Euron, filled with unquestionable trust and high regard. "I, Robert Baratheon, in the name of the King of the Seven Kingdoms, hereby announce—from this day forth, I name my brother and strongest warrior, Ser Euron Greyjoy, as Lord of Harrenhal! To rule the lands surrounding the Gods Eye and restore its former glory!"
At these words, the whole venue was shocked.
Harrenhal, the largest and most magnificent castle in Westeros. The power and status implied by its lordship far exceeded that of ordinary lords. The weight of this reward was truly bountiful.
Robert grinned, looking at Euron, and added a final sentence whose deep meaning only they fully understood. "I believe there is no one more suitable than you to occupy that 'Castle of Ash and Legend'! You are more worthy of it than any knight who only knows how to follow dogma!"
The investiture was complete.
The "Kraken" of the Iron Islands had henceforth become a lord of the Riverlands, entrenched in that magnificent castle symbolizing power, curses, and legend.