Everyone present knew well that Jon was merely being modest.
If he had insisted on taking Casterly Rock by storm, it was unlikely that anyone in this room would be standing here without a scratch.
Dying on the battlefield would have been a far more likely outcome.
Sandor Clegane understood clearly that Jon offering armor to the others was a political move to win them over, while offering it to him was a mark of personal favor. He accepted the gift with a grunt of satisfaction.
Jon then turned his gaze to Addam, who had remained frozen in place.
"Addam, was it? You may choose a suit as well."
"Thank you, my Lord." Addam hurried to express his gratitude.
Yet, uneasiness gnawed at his gut. He had, after all, killed Tywin Lannister.
Tywin had given him the Lannister name and was his liege lord. How would this young Duke, whom men were already calling "The Second Coming of Eddard Stark," deal with a man who had slain his own master?
As for Jon's earlier promise—that whoever took Tywin's head would be granted Sarsfield—Addam didn't dare dream of it.
If he could just secure a small manor and squeeze into the ranks of the nobility, he would be satisfied.
The others in the hall were equally curious about Addam's fate. They casually marked the suits of armor they had chosen, joking about the craftsmanship, all while keeping a sharp eye on how Jon would honor his word.
In their eyes, only a warrior who claimed Tywin's head in open battle truly deserved such a reward. Jon's promise surely hadn't been intended for a "turncloak" like Addam.
Moreover, some among them looked down on him. Ser Loras Tyrell, for instance, found the act of personally killing Tywin deeply dishonorable. It simply wasn't done.
It was much like the Kingslayer, Jaime. Everyone had wanted the Mad King Aerys dead, but anyone could have struck the blow except a brother of the Kingsguard.
The same logic applied here. Addam should not have been the one to kill Tywin.
The tension in the room was palpable. Everyone wondered how Jon would handle this delicate situation. After all, Jon had built a sterling reputation by refusing titles and names that weren't his.
If the punishment was too light, his reputation for honor would crumble. If it was too heavy, it would make governing the West difficult; countless Western lords had yet to come forth and bend the knee.
Jon looked at Addam and spoke calmly. "Addam. Since Tywin acknowledged you as a Lannister, and we stand here in the Hall of Heroes, let us discuss your future."
Addam realized his judgment day had arrived. He instinctively held his breath, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room pressing down on him.
"Tywin allowed his children to stain the royal bloodline and the honor of the Seven. He unleashed his armies to pillage the Riverlands, butchering the innocent. But he was the one who raised you up," Jon's voice echoed through the vast hall, every word landing with the weight of stone. "You should not have killed him. And it was not your place to do so."
Hearing Jon's verdict, Addam felt his heart turn to ash.
At least I get to keep my head, he thought bitterly. But any hope of wealth or glory is gone.
The onlookers remained expressionless. They felt Jon's judgment was sound, if perhaps a bit rigid.
Only Loras nodded in approval, feeling justice was served. Garlan Tyrell, meanwhile, was silently committing every detail to memory, ready to report back to Highgarden.
"Addam," Jon continued. "Do you have family?"
"Yes, my Lord. I have a mother and two younger brothers at home." Addam was confused. Why ask about his family? Surely his crime wouldn't condemn them too?
"Are they like you?" Jon asked.
He meant, are they bastards?
"Yes. Like me," Addam replied weakly.
"Good. You may choose one of your brothers to inherit Sarsfield. I declare that from this day forth, they too are Lannisters."
Jon paused, his eyes locking onto Addam's.
"As for you... I am sending you to the Wall. You will serve the Night's Watch for three years. If you are still alive after three years, you may return and take up your title as the Lord of Sarsfield."
"As you command, my..." Addam started to accept his fate, only to freeze as his brain caught up with the second half of the sentence. "My Lord?!"
Addam looked up at Jon, his face a mask of disbelief.
The room erupted in murmurs. What? A man can return from the Wall?
Everyone knew the Wall was a life sentence. But then, they remembered who ruled the North. The Wall was practically Stark territory. If the Lord of Winterfell and his brother wanted to pull a man off the Wall, who was going to stop them?
As for the sanctity of the Night's Watch vows... most of the southern lords didn't care. To them, the Wall was just a landfill for rapers, thieves, and brigands.
Only the Starks still treated it with any reverence, sending their own blood to man the ramparts in every generation.
Addam was ecstatic. This deal was incredibly favorable!
A tour at the Wall would wash away the stain of his betrayal. When he returned, he would be a Lord with a clean slate, and his family's future would be secured.
"Thank you, my Lord! Thank you!"
Addam fell to his knees. He knew Jon was showing him immense favor. Three years was nothing. He would return a man of five-and-twenty, still in his prime.
The smarter men in the room saw Jon's true intent. He wasn't just buying Addam; he was buying the Lannister influence in the West.
By legitimizing Addam, Jon created a "legal" branch of House Lannister that owed everything to him. Any other Western lord wanting to rally under the Lion banner would now have to contend with Addam's claim.
Furthermore, making an example of Addam would encourage other lords to surrender rather than fight to the death.
Even the man who killed Tywin was given a path to life and lordship, they would think. Surely, we who are merely following orders have nothing to fear.
True, Jon's personal honor might take a slight hit—the "proper" thing would be to leave Addam at the Wall forever and title his brother—but a liege lord sometimes had to accept a few stains for the greater good.
The return on this investment was massive.
Now, only Loras seemed dissatisfied. Everyone else nodded, recognizing the political wisdom.
Jon's thinking was pragmatic. If Robert Baratheon hadn't hated Rhaegar so blindly, perhaps Ned Stark would have told him the truth about Jon's parentage.
If Robert had legitimized Jon as a Targaryen and given him a holdfast, Jon would have been a loyal bannerman. Even if Daenerys hatched dragons, her claim would have been secondary to the "legal" heir.
Jon was applying the same logic to the West.
"However, my Lord," Addam said, thinking fast. "My family and I only require a manor. Sarsfield is too great a prize. You should grant it to a commander with true merit."
Jon looked down at the man whose forehead was practically touching the floor.
A smart man, Jon thought.
Addam was ruthless, bold, and young. But now, his entire future was tied to Jon. Unless Jon drove him to a dead end, he was unlikely to betray him again.
And since his brothers hadn't served in the army, they were likely young enough for Jon to mold into loyalists.
Jon had plans for Sarsfield. It was close to Casterly Rock—practically a satellite town.
In peacetime, the Rock and Lannisport would drain the population and economy from Sarsfield, so Jon didn't worry about it becoming a threat.
"Why?" Jon asked, his voice cool. "Do you think my word is not gold?"
"No! I dare not!" Addam stammered, raising his sword high above his head with trembling hands. "Thank you for your bounty, my Lord! My House and I shall be eternally loyal to you. We shall be the hounds of the Starks of Casterly Rock!"
"Rise. I accept your fealty."
Jon had effectively granted the title, but he intended to strip much of the land attached to it.
Not just Sarsfield—Jon planned to seize half the lands from every Western lord he subjugated. He would use this land to settle the smallfolk, centralizing power.
His goal was to increase the number of freeholding yeomen in the West. Farmers in peace, soldiers in war.
Jon intended to bypass the feudal lords and rule the populace directly. He had no desire to call his banners in the future only to find a lord holding his army back because of a petty grudge.
To the observers, Jon's handling of the situation wasn't perfect, but it was optimal.
Rewards were given, punishments were meted out. If Addam hadn't killed Tywin, a bloody siege would have been inevitable.
They had all seen the quality of Casterly Rock's armory. A direct assault would have cost them dearly. Even the knights in the room might not have survived.
Finally, the group moved to the "Golden Corridor."
Addam, ever the eager guide, explained that the intricate murals lining the walls were carved directly into solid gold.
Jon looked down the corridor, which stretched for hundreds of yards, shimmering in the torchlight.
"Have the artisans pry all this gold off the walls," Jon commanded. "Melt it down and toss it into the treasury."
"At once, my Lord."
Addam, now a Count, was eager to please. He resolved to ensure every ounce of that gold made it into Jon's vaults to prove his loyalty.
After inspecting the Golden Corridor, Addam stepped forward again, bowing low.
"My Lord, where to next? Shall we inspect the treasury? The granaries? Or perhaps the armory?"
Chapter 172: Casterly Rock Changes Hands — The Mask of the Ruler
"I won't work for a Stark! Let alone a motherless bastard."
"Old Ace, are you really leaving?"
"Didn't that Northerner say it himself? Any soldier who wants to go home can go. So why can't I?"
"You're the best blacksmith we have. How could he just let you walk away?"
"Even if he tries to keep me, I won't lift a hammer for him. These Northerners are just like the reavers from the Iron Islands—they only know how to plunder!"
The blacksmith, a man with graying temples but a body built like a bull, shouted in anger.
He still remembered the rumors that had swirled through the city when the Northern army first breached the West months ago.
They said the Northerners were raiding the northern parts of the Westerlands, while the Ironborn were ravaging the south, stealing women and grain.
They said the pastures at Oxcross had been stripped bare, with tens of thousands of livestock either stolen or slaughtered and boiled in pots right there in the fields.
They were like a wildfire sweeping through a forest, using the prosperity of the Westerlands as fuel, leaving nothing but ash in their wake.
Artisans, by nature, were often stubborn men. They relied on their skills to eat. Lords and knights had to come to them to repair armor or sharpen blades.
Among the Seven Gods of the Andals, the Smith was one of the most revered figures. The Andals had conquered Westeros precisely because the steel in their hands was superior to the bronze of the First Men.
Thus, in Westeros, a master blacksmith held a respectable social standing.
"But... but he knows sorcery, Master Ace," a young apprentice stammered, trying to warn him. "What if... what if he curses you?"
"We are under the protection of the Smith! If he wants to curse me, let him come!"
The master blacksmith's voice boomed like the roar of a furnace, loud enough to shake the dust from the rafters.
Just as he shouldered his pack, ready to storm out, another young apprentice came running in, breathless.
"Master Ace! That bast— I mean, that Northerner is coming! He wants to see us."
The old blacksmith's face darkened. He knew that walking out right now would be a direct slap in Jon's face. After a moment of internal struggle, he decided to swallow his pride for the moment.
Jon had arrived at the workshops of Casterly Rock. It wasn't just blacksmiths here; there were carpenters and stonemasons as well.
The Lannisters kept hundreds of skilled artisans on their payroll. They were a crucial part of the castle's defense system.
When Jon learned that Casterly Rock housed such a large group of master craftsmen, he immediately wanted to recruit them. But he didn't want forced labor; he wanted them to contribute their wisdom willingly.
With these men, many of his ideas could become reality. Printing presses, textile machines—these era-defining technologies were worth far more than any gold mine.
With these tools, Jon could generate wealth at an unprecedented rate.
Moreover, he had no desire to fight the White Walkers in hand-to-hand combat in the future. If he could blast them into oblivion from a distance, that would be ideal.
So, Jon was willing to leave the Lannister vaults and treasury untouched, but he would not let these artisans leave his domain.
The craftsmen sent twenty or thirty representatives to meet Jon, including Old Ace, who had just been clamoring to leave.
When the group finally saw Jon clearly, they were surprised.
They had expected a man who made a name for himself on the battlefield—and who reputedly wielded dark sorcery—to be a brute like the Mountain, or perhaps a sinister figure in a hood like a warlock.
Instead, he looked... sunny.
He was tall and lean, his movements elegant. The only flaw, in their eyes, was the lack of that noble golden hair.
Jon's grey eyes swept over the gathered men. Their arms were thick and muscular, their necks sturdy—signs of years of hard labor.
He noticed a few men with sullen faces, hands guarding their stomachs defensively. Some even had packs on their backs, their intention to leave clear as day.
These artisans weren't nobility, but compared to the smallfolk, they lived comfortable lives. They had status, they cared about "face," and to have mastered a craft, they certainly weren't stupid.
So, Jon decided to skip the pleasantries and get straight to the point.
"Master craftsmen," Jon began. "I am Jon Stark. I intend to establish a new Grand Armory here in Casterly Rock. I will select one man from among you to be the Master Overseer. While holding this position, your status will be equivalent to that of a Lord. Who among you has the best skills?"
Status equivalent to a Lord?!
The group of artisans stood frozen, stunned into silence by Jon's offer.
Moreover, Jon's attitude was incredibly polite. He, a high lord, had addressed them as "Masters"—a title usually reserved for Maesters.
The craftsmen looked at each other, seeking confirmation in their neighbors' eyes that they hadn't hallucinated the words.
Old Ace, the blacksmith, silently slipped the grey-green bundle from his shoulder and hid it behind his leg.
"My Lord... people like us... we can become nobles?" a slightly younger artisan asked. He was young, ambitious, and eager to rise.
"Of course," Jon said with a warm, friendly tone. "I hope to choose a man with superior skill and the respect of his peers to lead the Grand Armory. If you perform well during your tenure, upon your retirement, I will personally grant you a Lordship. Along with it, of course, will come lands and a manor. If you desire a castle, that too can be arranged."
Jon knew how to play the role of a ruler. A ruler must be gracious to those who serve him. If things turned sour later, he could always have someone else play the bad guy.
In public, even if he had only one piece of meat left in his bowl, he had to share it. Otherwise, if the slighted man turned out to be his groom, who knew where the carriage might end up?
If the Dragon Queen could be "Mhysa" to the slaves of Slaver's Bay, Jon could be the "Father" to the commoners of the West.
Hearing Jon's confirmation, the artisans perked up. They leaned forward, whispering excitedly among themselves.
A castle! That was the mark of true nobility!
The thought of becoming a lord made their mouths go dry. Every man began to calculate if his skills and reputation were enough to secure the position of Master Overseer.
The opportunity was simply too rare. How many of them came from lines of commoners stretching back thousands of years?
Artisans might live well when they were young and strong, but once they grew old, they were no different from the poorest peasant. It wasn't uncommon for an old craftsman to be kicked out of his home by his own sons.
But a Lordship changed everything. They could die in their own beds, in their own castles, without fear of freezing in the wild.
Jon was pleased with their reaction.
Stannis had bought Davos Seaworth's undying loyalty with a simple knighthood. Jon now held vast lands and the authority to grant titles. If he couldn't flip the script on the Lannisters with these resources, he might as well go back to the Wall.
"My Lord, I believe my skills are adequate," Old Ace, having kicked his bundle further under his feet, stepped forward to volunteer.
The smiths who had come with him looked at him in shock.
"Good. If no one contests you, then the position is yours," Jon nodded.
"My Lord, my skills are not inferior to his!"
Just as the words left Jon's mouth, another blacksmith of similar age stepped out to recommend himself.
"Hah! You?" Ace sneered. "I taught you everything you know!"
This was a chance to become a noble. If they didn't fight for it now, when would they?
But the second blacksmith didn't bother arguing about technique. He turned directly to Jon.
"My Lord, he insulted you in private! He called you a motherless... he called you a bastard!"
"You're lying!" Ace's voice trembled. He was terrified. A casual complaint vented in anger had suddenly become a blade held to his throat.
Jon looked at Ace with an expressionless face. Ace felt cold sweat drenching his back.
"My Lord, I didn't! I—I—"
Robert Frey, Jon's squire, already had his hand on the hilt of his sword.
If Jon was insulted, it was his duty to draw steel. The man before him might be a skilled artisan, but he was still a commoner. Robert was itching to practice his swordsmanship.
"My Lord, I didn't... I wasn't talking about you, my Lord... I—I—" Ace's defense was weak and pale.
"It was him, my Lord! I heard it too!"
Ace whipped his head around. The young apprentice who had tried to persuade him not to leave earlier was now pointing a finger at him.
"Yes, I heard it! He said you were a motherless bastard, my Lord."
"He said Northerners are just like pirates, only knowing how to plunder."
"He said—"
"He said—"
Everyone scrambled to curry favor with Jon, desperate for that chance at nobility.
Jon looked at the dozens of noisy artisans. It felt like throwing a handful of feed into a fishpond.
The fish churned and snapped at each other, forming a vortex of greed.
Initially, Jon had simply thought that respecting these men and raising their status would give them a sense of belonging, making them serve the new Lord of Casterly Rock better.
But since coming to this world, he had been constantly at war or preparing for war. He was surrounded by highborns and had never truly interacted with the common folk.
His modern mindset hadn't prepared him for the terrifying allure of nobility in this feudal world. It was enough to make old friends, partners, and even masters and apprentices turn on each other in an instant.
"Enough!"
Jon shouted. The artisans, who looked ready to tear Ace apart with their bare hands, instantly fell silent.
Although he had achieved his goal of winning their hearts, seeing such an ugly spectacle on his own turf left a bad taste in his mouth.
"I will not grant just one title," Jon announced. "In the future, if you complete my tasks or create new inventions, I will reward you with land, gold, and titles according to the value of your work!"
Jon's promise caused another uproar, diverting their attention from attacking Ace.
"I am a bastard. That is true," Jon said, his voice cutting through the noise. "But my title was won with the sword in my hand on the battlefield. It was bought with the blood of my enemies and granted by King Stannis."
He looked them in the eye.
"On the battlefield, what I hate most is not a powerful, cunning enemy, but an ally who drags me down. If something like this happens again—betraying one another for scraps—I will kick the offender out of Casterly Rock! Do you understand?"
Chastised, the artisans nodded vigorously.
"My Lord, how should we deal with him?" Robert Frey asked, looking at Ace, who was shivering on the ground.
Everyone waited for Jon's decision.
"Even a King cannot avoid people cursing him behind his back. It is a small matter," Jon said dismissively. "Fine him one month's wages."
"Is... is that all?" Ace looked up at Jon in disbelief, his heart still pounding in his throat.
"Master Ace, thank the Lord quickly!" someone whispered.
"Thank you, my Lord! Thank you for your mercy!" Ace banged his head against the stone floor so hard that blood stained the bricks.
In the end, Jon chose a carpenter named Wood, who had stayed out of the conflict entirely, to be the Master Overseer of the Grand Armory.
Leaving the workshops, Jon was in a good mood. Subduing these craftsmen had been easier than he expected.
But soon, he received news that dampened his spirits.
Varys sent word: Stannis was sending men to Casterly Rock to seize the gold reserves for the Crown's treasury.
The tax collector was coming.
Chapter 172: Casterly Rock Changes Hands — Jon and Margaery, Cersei and Robert
Sandor Clegane stood behind the empty high seat. The great hall, now set for a feast, was packed with the various lords who had joined the campaign.
Food and fine wine flowed like water, brought out by serving girls and attendants whose eyes betrayed obvious panic.
Although Jon had conquered Casterly Rock, remolding the castle in his own image would take time and effort.
For instance, not long ago, the kitchens still had to be watched closely to ensure no one poisoned the food.
Even the decor was a temporary fix; the lion reliefs carved into the stone walls behind him were simply draped over with Jon's black banners.
A thought suddenly occurred to Sandor: Once Jon and Margaery were married, would Casterly Rock suddenly be swarming with Tyrells?
It reminded him of when Robert Baratheon sat the Iron Throne. The Red Keep had been overrun by a golden-haired horde of Lannisters. If that happened here, would Jon and Margaery end up like Robert and Cersei?
The Red Keep had been rife with rumors about the "battles" between Cersei and Robert. Some said the chip in Robert's tooth wasn't from a fall, as he claimed to save face, but from Cersei smashing him in the mouth with a wine flagon.
The Lannisters were rich, but the Tyrells weren't exactly paupers either.
Jaime had been Robert's Kingsguard; now Jon intended to make Loras the Commander of the City Watch for Casterly Rock.
It all felt suspiciously familiar to Sandor.
I just wonder if Jon has any bastards hidden away, Sandor mused.
After all, Sandor had only officially sworn fealty to Jon in King's Landing. There had been a gap of half a year before that. Who knew if Jon had hooked up with some fisher's daughter during that time?
despite his towering size and the burn scars that made him look like a brute, Sandor was sharp. He thought ahead. He felt his position by Jon's side wasn't entirely secure yet; he needed to find a chance to remind the boy of his value.
Sandor scanned the banquet hall. There were no musicians, and the dishes were simple, but the victory itself was magnificent—shining as brightly as the chandeliers overhead, where hundreds of candles burned at once, turning night into day.
Jon hadn't arrived yet, so the lords took the opportunity to converse in hushed tones.
---
"Father, when we return to the Crag, should we send Rollam here?" Raynald Westerling asked his father.
His younger brother was still a child, barely ten years old—the same age as Arya Stark.
"Send him," Gawen Westerling replied without hesitation.
The Westerlings of the Crag were an ancient but impoverished house. They held the title of Earl, yet they had rented out most of their lands. They were so cash-strapped they hadn't even been able to repair their own castle.
When Robb Stark swept through the West, he hadn't even bothered to look at the Crag twice—though he had certainly looked at Jeyne.
The Westerlings had been quick to pick a side, following Jon back to the West to reclaim it. That gamble had paid off today.
Because they had stood on the right side of history, it was foreseeable that House Westerling would return to the top tier of Western nobility. Becoming wealthy again was only a matter of a few years.
Rollam was Gawen's youngest son. Sending him to Casterly Rock as a page or cupbearer would show loyalty to their new liege lord. Moreover, Jon was undeniably capable; if Rollam could learn even a fraction of Jon's skill, it would be enough for a lifetime.
As for whether Gawen's wife would bear the parting, that wasn't within his scope of consideration.
At that moment, a medium-height, sturdy man approached the father and son. It was Black Walder Frey.
Black Walder was not a man who enjoyed idle chatter by nature. But he had to answer to old Lord Walder when he returned to the Twins.
More importantly, he needed reassurance. House Frey had invested heavily this time—sending an army and a bride (Roslin).
Now that Jon had taken Casterly Rock, he had the capital to renege on the deal if he wanted. With the fortress on lockdown, the Freys would have nowhere to cry if Jon decided to stiff them. They had to rely on Jon's honor.
Even if he couldn't get immediate material benefits, Black Walder needed to bring back some solid promises.
"Ser Frey."
"Lord Westerling."
After exchanging greetings, Black Walder raised his goblet. "Long live Lord Jon!"
"Long live Lord Jon."
"Our Lord Jon is truly remarkable, isn't he? To break the myth that Casterly Rock could never fall," Black Walder started, using Jon as the icebreaker.
"Indeed. Lord Jon is unfathomable," Raynald agreed.
"..."
After the opening pleasantries, silence fell. Neither the Westerlings nor Black Walder were conversationalists. A few sentences in, and the well ran dry.
But Black Walder knew that because of Jeyne, the Westerlings would hold a special place in Jon's heart. And Gawen knew the Freys had sent two thousand men to aid the campaign, meaning their bond with Jon was deep. Both sides wanted to network, so they were forced into an awkward chat.
Black Walder took a sip of wine to moisten his lips. "Does the Crag have gold mines?"
"No." Gawen's answer dropped like a stone. But seeing that he did want to keep talking, he added, "The Crag is very close to the coast."
"Oh. Well, all the gold mines in the West belong to Lord Jon now. I'm sure he won't be stingy with his rewards."
"Yes, the Lord is a generous man," Raynald added, being slightly more talkative than his father.
"The lords of the southern West haven't sworn fealty yet. There may be battles ahead. The Lord might still need the strength of the Crag," Black Walder offered another topic, looking relieved to have thought of it.
"True. But thankfully, the Lord is betrothed to House Tyrell. Highgarden will surely support his military actions."
"Mm. Correct." Black Walder nodded.
And... silence again.
The three men took a synchronized sip of wine.
Fortunately, the herald's voice finally rang out from the entrance.
---
"The Duke of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Lord Jon has arrived!"
Seeing Jon finally appear, Black Walder and the Westerlings let out a collective sigh of relief. Making small talk was harder than fighting a war.
They exchanged relaxed smiles and returned to their seats.
Flanked by Robert Frey and the newly minted Earl Addam, Jon walked down the center of the hall, heading straight for the high seat.
Jon had invited not only the high lords like Brynden Tully, Paxter Redwyne, and Garlan Tyrell but also many of the military officers.
It made for a lively scene, yet as he walked, the hall fell silent, the only sound being his boots on the stone floor.
The victory was massive, and the cost had been negligible. Almost no one had been injured taking the Golden Tooth or the Rock.
The only regret was that Rickard Karstark was still holding the Golden Tooth and couldn't be here.
After Jon took his seat, Robert Frey poured him a cup of wine. All eyes were focused on him.
Jon knew their help hadn't been for charity. It was time to state his position.
He raised his goblet. "My Lords, we have conquered Casterly Rock. The remnants in the south are of no concern. I thank you all for your support. The Stark of Casterly Rock will forever remember this great friendship. To His Grace, King Stannis Baratheon!"
"Long live the King! Long live Jon Stark!"
After the short toast, Jon knew he needed to distribute the spoils. But first, a little casual conversation was required.
Loras spoke up. "My Lord Duke, we intend to take the Tyrell army back to Highgarden."
"Oh? I thought you were staying to be my Commander of the City Watch?" Jon smiled.
At this point, even if Loras didn't like Jon, he had no grounds for disrespect. Taking the West and the Rock in less than three months—regardless of the method—was a feat that demanded respect.
"I... I must return with my brother Garlan to prepare for the wedding. I will return to Casterly Rock with Margaery," Loras said, rubbing his nose sheepishly.
"Ah, naturally. Please give my regards to Lady Margaery. Tell her I await her at the Rock," Jon said easily.
"Let us toast to the Duke and Lady Margaery! May their love be eternal!" Addam, seizing the moment, stood up to propose another toast.
"To the Lord and Lady Margaery! Another cup!"
The hall drank again.
"The Lord must have many children," Martin Rivers joked loudly. "Otherwise, with so many rooms in Casterly Rock, it would be a pity to leave them empty!"
"Indeed, my Lord. Just like our House Frey," Black Walder chimed in.
He knew about Jon and Roslin, but he couldn't mention it openly here. He could only drop a subtle hint.
Jon said nothing, merely raising his cup slightly in Black Walder's direction, acknowledging the debt.
"My Lord, I wonder if you've ever slept with a woman? Don't go getting lost and missing the 'main gate' on your wedding night!"
Sandor Clegane's joke was crude, but it didn't violate the atmosphere. In fact, the Hound was being calculating.
Laughter erupted in the hall, loud enough to scare the lions off the walls. Even the elderly Brynden Tully cracked a smile.
In this setting, everyone felt comfortable enough to tease Jon about the wedding. He was the biggest winner, after all—he had the castle and the girl.
Many kings and lords kept a Fool, and usually, only the Fool could mock the King. Sandor was simply slipping into that role to show intimacy without overstepping his station as a warrior.
Except for Paxter's twin sons—who were still jealous—everyone was in high spirits.
Martin Rivers, the first to joke, was practically Jon's oldest follower now that Old York had returned North. Before the bedding ceremony, according to Westerosi custom, as a trusted confidant, he would be one of the men allowed to tear the hem of Margaery's gown.
"Lord Jon, I must also take my fleet back to the Arbor," Paxter Redwyne announced.
"No problem. I will personally cover all supplies and losses incurred by the Redwyne fleet during this campaign," Jon replied generously.
Cooperation with the Redwynes wasn't a one-time deal. He would need them when it came time to deal with the Iron Islands.
Currently, Casterly Rock had fewer than twenty ships, and those only survived because they were docked in the sea caverns beneath the mountain. Otherwise, the Ironborn would have snatched them long ago.
Jon knew he needed to build a fleet of his own. Not just for the Ironborn, but to support the Wall and defend against the White Walkers in the future.
With the pleasantries done, Jon steered the conversation to the main event.
"My Lords, you have all toiled hard for this victory. Tomorrow, I will open the Golden Vaults of Casterly Rock. I intend to share the treasures within with all of you!"
As Jon spoke, he threw his arms wide, channeling a generosity that looked positively like Robert Baratheon in his prime.
Distribute all the treasure in the vaults?
The lords couldn't believe their ears.
The Lannisters had been rich enough to lend the Iron Throne three million Gold Dragons. Their reserves must be at least that much, if not more!
Even with war expenses, the gold and silver costs were one thing, but the priceless heirlooms and treasures accumulated over thousands of years would be staggering.
If he really divided it all up... they were going to be filthy rich.
Is Jon really going to give it all away?