The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan "The Bold" Selmy, stepped forward. His snow-white armor appeared exceptionally solemn under the light.
His voice was steady, carrying an unignorable gravity. "Your Grace, the Kingsguard suffered heavy losses during the Usurper's War. Only myself and Ser Jaime Lannister remain active in the white brotherhood. Five vacancies remain, in urgent need of filling."
Hearing this, a heavy shadow crossed Robert's rugged face. He sighed deeply, a sigh mixed with complex respect for past opponents and a sober resignation to reality. "Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning... Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull... They were paragons of knighthood rarely seen in this age, models of both skill and virtue." He shook his head, his tone somewhat bleak. "Such figures... I fear if we scour the Seven Kingdoms today, we won't find anyone to replace them."
Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower now wore black cloaks, garrisoning the Wall, atoning for the rest of their lives.
Letters from Ashara some days ago mentioned that Arthur Dayne was now First Ranger, and Gerold Hightower was Master-at-Arms. Because of their presence, many knights from across the realm had voluntarily joined the Night's Watch, fully proving their status among the knighthood of the Seven Kingdoms.
Beside them, the "Red Viper" Prince Oberyn also dropped his usual laziness, nodding seriously in agreement. He mentioned, "Lewyn Martell, Jon Darry, Oswell Whent... They too possessed superb strength. Not only were they individually valiant, but they also had the talent to lead armies. Their departure is likewise a loss for the entire realm."
Lewyn Martell was his uncle. After being captured during the war, he was sent back to Dorne. Now, he was the Master-at-Arms of Sunspear, returning home to enjoy his old age. Jon Darry died at the Trident, personally slain by Euron. Oswell Whent had returned to Harrenhal to care for the only remaining blood of his house.
Amidst the atmosphere of reminiscence and regret, Eddard Stark's quiet voice sounded, pulling the topic back to the most practical need. "Past glories are nostalgic, but what the King needs now is the protection of loyal and reliable Kingsguard. The candidates must be chosen with the utmost caution."
His words set the tone for the discussion—while honoring legends, they must focus on the future and find new guardians for the Iron Throne.
The air in the hall seemed to stagnate for a moment until the Queen, who had been silent, suddenly spoke, breaking the silence born of deliberation.
Cersei Lannister's voice was clear and calm, listing five names in an unquestionable tone: "Ser Arys Oakheart, Ser Boros Blount, Ser Mandon Moore, Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Preston Greenfield." She lifted her chin slightly, her gaze sweeping over everyone present. "They performed excellently in the tourney celebrating His Grace's coronation and wedding. I believe they can be promoted to fill the vacancies in the Kingsguard."
As soon as these words were spoken, the expressions of those present became extremely colorful. Surprise, speculation, indifference, unease, doubt, disdain—various emotions were silently conveyed through exchanged glances.
Robert frowned deeply, struggling to search his chaotic, hungover memories. He had no impression of these five names, nor did he remember any "excellent" performance from them. Impatiently, he turned his head to look at the golden-haired white knight, asking rudely, "'Kingslayer'! You competed with them. Tell me, are these fellows worthy of wearing the white cloak?"
The corner of Jaime Lannister's mouth twitched imperceptibly. A harsh judgment flashed through his mind: Them? Hmph. If Arthur Dayne were here, he could probably piss with one hand and easily flatten all five of them with the other.
But when he looked up and met his sister Cersei's calm yet meaningful emerald eyes, he swallowed the words on the tip of his tongue. He lowered his eyelids and replied in a tone devoid of emotion, "Compared to the legends His Grace just mentioned, they naturally fall far short. But... in the current Seven Kingdoms, they count as rare, fairly decent warriors."
Robert was clearly dissatisfied with this ambiguous answer. He turned his gaze to another true legend. "Barristan, what do you think?"
The old knight Barristan Selmy's eyes dimmed for a moment. He seemed to see the supreme honor represented by that white armor slowly gathering dust. He was silent for a moment, which finally turned into a heavy sigh. With endless helplessness, he said, "Having some is better than having none. The most important thing is loyalty!"
This sentence, almost abandoning the bottom line, made Robert scoff. He waved his thick arm as if shooing a fly, speaking with drunken arrogance and undisguised contempt. "Fellows who can't even beat the 'Kingslayer'—and I'm supposed to count on them to protect me!? Don't tell me I'll have to end up protecting them instead!"
He was clearly uninterested and too lazy to delve deeper. Waving his hand casually, he made the decision. "Forget it! When has Robert Baratheon ever needed anyone to protect him! Since my Queen thinks they will do, let them serve for now." He paused, his tone disdainful. "Anyway, they're just useless decorations."
Jon Arryn looked around at the newly established members of the Small Council and spoke deeply. "Since the candidates are set, we will hold a brief first Small Council meeting today." He paused slightly, the wrinkles on his face seeming to deepen. "I have just received news that is not good..."
He took a deep breath, his tone grave. "The two million Gold Dragons the Iron Bank intended to lend the Crown... four days ago—the night of His Grace's wedding—encountered a storm near the Gullet along with the ship and crew. It is confirmed... all two million Gold Dragons have sunk into the sea!"
"Two million Gold Dragons?! Sunk into the sea!?" Lord Mace Tyrell blurted out in shock.
The news was like a boulder crashing into calm water. The eyes of everyone at the meeting turned involuntarily and in unison toward the composed Euron Greyjoy sitting nearby. Their gazes held suspicion, speculation, and even a trace of indescribable knowing.
After all, "the sea" and "storm"—it was hard not to associate these words with the newly titled Lord of Harrenhal, the "Lord of Krakens."
Feeling the converging gazes, Euron cleared his throat twice. A look mixing innocence and offense appeared on his face. He spread his hands, asking lightly, "Why is everyone looking at me? Weren't we drinking together all night that evening? His Grace was dead drunk; in the end, Lord Eddard and I carried him to the bridal chamber door. Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime can testify. Could I split myself in two, run to the Gullet, and whip up a storm?"