"Long live King Robert!"
"Long live Lord Renly!"
Inside the Throne Room, as the investiture ceremony concluded, the assembled lords obligingly erupted into applause and cheers, the sound washing over the hall in massive waves.
The professional courtiers—men like Ser Dontos, the fool Moon Boy, and the sickly Lord Rosby—shouted and cheered the loudest, throwing themselves entirely into the role of enthusiastic hype-men.
(This was the same Ser Dontos Hollard who, in the original story, would eventually be stripped of his knighthood and humiliated into becoming a court fool by Joffrey, only to be later murdered by Littlefinger after helping Sansa Stark escape).
House Hollard had been minor vassals to House Darklyn of Duskendale. When the Darklyns rebelled and were entirely annihilated by the Mad King, the Hollards suffered the exact same fate.
The only reason Dontos survived was because Ser Barristan Selmy had specifically begged the Mad King to spare the child's life as a boon for rescuing him.
Now, in Robert's court, Dontos was nothing but a drunken joke.
A landless, penniless knight was barely a knight at all; he was just a vagrant in armor, kept around for the amusement of his betters.
Arthur looked up at the dais, watching the radiant, triumphant face of young Renly Baratheon.
Renly likely didn't understand the true, terrifying mechanics of the power he had just been handed, but he clearly loved the sensation of thousands of people cheering his name.
Honestly, in terms of sheer good looks, Renly is probably the only person in this room who can rival me right now, Arthur thought with dry amusement.
Renly possessed the classic, overwhelming Baratheon magnetism, while Arthur possessed a refined, vibrant, sun-kissed perfection.
But in terms of raw political power? Arthur currently couldn't even touch the boy.
Renly hadn't accomplished a single thing in his entire life. He hadn't fought, he hadn't schemed, he hadn't bled. Yet, purely on the whims of an indulgent older brother, he had just been strapped to a rocket and launched to the absolute apex of the Westerosi hierarchy.
The direct royal domains—the Stormlands, the Crownlands, and Dragonstone—had been permanently severed into three.
And Renly had been handed the largest, most powerful slice: the ancestral Baratheon homeland.
When Renly stood up from his knees, he ceased being an irrelevant third son and instantly became one of the five most powerful men on the continent.
In the entire history of the Seven Kingdoms, this was utterly unprecedented.
Even within the Great Houses, second and third sons almost universally ended up as minor landed knights, squires, or sworn swords to their older brothers. Even the obscenely wealthy Lannisters adhered to this rule.
However, all of Robert's indulgent generosity was destined to backfire spectacularly. When Renly grew up, he would give Robert a masterclass in the ancient proverb: Feed a man a bowl of rice, he'll treat you as a benefactor; feed him a sack of rice, he'll treat you as an enemy.
If you were willing to give me Storm's End for free, why not just give me King's Landing, too?
Arthur couldn't say for certain whether Renly was inherently a treacherous viper, or if he was simply corrupted later by the toxic ambitions of House Tyrell. But realistically, it was probably a mix of both.
The atmosphere in the Throne Room was deafeningly festive. Some of the cheering lords were genuinely foolish enough to think this was a great idea; others were just smart enough to pretend they did.
Even if someone recognized how catastrophically stupid this decision was, the ink was already dry.
When the King made a decree, who had the courage to tell him no?
Robert rarely engaged in the actual governance of the realm, but when he finally made a decision, he tolerated absolutely zero dissent.
That was Robert Baratheon. He didn't care about precedent, logic, or long-term consequences. He wanted his little brother to be a Lord Paramount, so his little brother was a Lord Paramount.
Step one: Crown Renly.
Step two: Appoint a castellan to manage the Stormlands and ensure the Stormlords swore their oaths of fealty to the boy.
"Ser Cortnay Penrose. I name you the castellan of Storm's End and protector of Lord Renly. You will safeguard him and govern in his name until he comes of age," Robert commanded, his voice booming across the hall.
"I hear and obey, Your Grace," Ser Cortnay replied, dropping to one knee.
Ser Cortnay Penrose was a genuinely good, honorable, and fiercely brave man.
He was the perfect, obedient tool—a man who would manage the castle flawlessly but would never attempt to usurp or control Renly.
It was almost enough to make you weep. What an incredibly generous older brother.
A child of eight suddenly thrust into absolute power desperately needed a strict, authoritative Regent to supervise his education and curb his impulses. Even Kings usually suffered under the heavy, agonizing discipline of their Regents until they came of age.
Not Robert. Robert bypassed a Regency entirely, appointing a "protector" instead, practically guaranteeing that Renly would grow up wildly spoiled, utterly comfortable, and completely unchecked.
Step three: The lords of the Stormlands publicly swore fealty to the boy.
"Lord Renly, I swear to be your loyal bannerman. By the Old Gods and the New, I pledge my sword to Storm's End," Lord Swann declared, kneeling before the child.
He was followed by the rest of the Stormlords: Lord Caron, Lord Tarth, Lord Dondarrion, and the rest.
"Long live Lord Renly!"
"Long live King Robert!"
As the final oaths were sworn, the cheering reached a fever pitch. The hall practically shook with the noise.
---
In the Vale section, Jon Arryn maintained a mask of calm, dignified approval, but internally, he was drowning in weary frustration.
He simply could not control Robert. Robert was a wild, unbroken stallion, and unfortunately, that stallion happened to be wearing a crown.
"Long live Storm's End!"
In the Reach section, Olenna Tyrell, the "Queen of Thorns," smiled pleasantly and clapped along with the crowd. But behind her eyes, the gears of a massive, ruthless conspiracy were already turning.
Robert Baratheon despised the Reach. But today, the King had personally forged the very knife that would eventually be used to gut his own dynasty, and handed it right to them.
In the Westerlands section, Kevan Lannister, Tywin's ever-loyal shadow, took a slow, deep breath, his applause entirely mechanical.
Cersei was pregnant. Assuming she birthed a son, that boy was going to inherit a severely fractured Baratheon power base, surrounded by two heavily armed, deeply resentful uncles.
Stannis already despised the Lannisters. And who knew what a fully grown Renly would do?
They couldn't openly challenge Robert now—his military prestige was absolute—but they desperately needed to begin laying the groundwork to secure power the moment Robert died.
At least Cersei and Jaime were firmly entrenched in King's Landing, with Tywin pulling the strings from Casterly Rock and Grand Maester Pycelle acting as their inside man on the council.
In the Riverlands section, Lord Hoster Tully looked visibly uncomfortable, his complexion graying.
Of all the rebel leaders, he felt he had bled the most and gained the least from the new regime.
Arthur scanned the room, easily reading the subtle shifts in the political currents.
The true predators in the room had immediately recognized the massive, self-inflicted wound Robert had just dealt his own family. They were already sharpening their knives, preparing to carve out their own piece of the inevitable chaos.
Meanwhile, Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. His eyes were practically shooting actual fire at his younger brother.
My Stormlands. He gave away MY Stormlands.
Honestly, if Robert had just kept the Stormlands as a direct royal domain, Stannis might have grumbled, but he would have accepted Dragonstone as a fair prize.
But to give the ancestral seat to the youngest brother? The absolute, blatant unfairness of it was enough to drive Stannis mad.
---
Nightfall. The Throne Room.
Following the grand ceremony, Robert hosted a massive, extravagant feast for the assembled nobility, complete with a sprawling ball.
The high table, erected on the dais right beneath the Iron Throne, was the undisputed center of gravity. The edges of the table were draped with massive silk banners depicting the Crowned Stag, the Roaring Lion, the Falcon and Moon, the Golden Rose, the Leaping Trout, and the Merman.
The King, the Queen, the Lord Paramounts, and the envoys from the North and the Westerlands dined at this table.
Arthur was seated in the second tier, situated just below the high table. He shared this section with prominent, upper-tier houses like the Freys, the Blackwoods, the Rowans, the Redwynes, and the Royces.
The seating arrangement radiated outward from the dais in strict descending order of prestige; the further you sat from the King, the less you mattered.
The air was filled with the soft, elegant melodies of harps and lutes, and an endless river of staggering culinary excess flowed from the kitchens.
Roasted river trout, massive racks of lamb and pork, rich oxtail soup, delicate fish stews, fried mushrooms, and battered sea fish.
The drinks flowed just as freely: Dornish Arbor Gold, sweet Arbor reds, honeyed lemon water, and iced milk.
Arthur even spotted his own Harrenhal sweet corn prominently featured in the fruit and vegetable spreads, beautifully arranged alongside fresh strawberries and roasted turnips. The flavor was a massive hit; he had successfully conquered the royal palate.
"Who is that glowing, radiant boy over there?" the Queen of Thorns muttered, leaning toward her grandson, Willas Tyrell.
Arthur was one of the very few young boys seated in the prestigious second tier, making him incredibly conspicuous.
While it was a high-status seat, it was still positioned on the outer edge, slightly removed from the direct center of royal power.
"He wears the black bat. That is the Heir to Harrenhal," Willas replied softly. (Willas had not yet suffered the jousting injury that would cripple him).
"Well, now. Isn't that interesting," the Queen of Thorns murmured, a calculating glint in her eye. She said no more.
---
Once the feast concluded, the tables were cleared, transforming the massive central aisle of the Throne Room into a sprawling dance floor.
Robert was already completely hammered, his face flushed a deep, unhealthy red.
Cersei shot her drunken husband a look of absolute, undisguised disgust before carefully masking it behind a veil of haughty indifference.
Robert suddenly stood up, swaying slightly, threw his head back, and began to bellow at the top of his lungs:
"A bear there was, a bear, a bear! All black and brown, and covered with hair!"
The entire hall erupted. The formal, stuffy atmosphere vanished instantly as the assembled lords and knights began clapping their hands and stomping their feet to the King's rhythm.
It was exactly this kind of bawdy, crude, unpretentious energy that made men love Robert. He wasn't some distant, ethereal god; he was a guy you wanted to get blackout drunk with.
Robert's favorite songs were always things like A Cask of Ale, Forty-Four Kegs, or The Bear and the Maiden Fair. He loved songs that made him laugh and shout, the cruder the better, and he only ever sang when he was roaring drunk.
"Dance! A dance!" the lords cheered, rising from their seats.
Robert grabbed Cersei by the arm and dragged her onto the floor. After the King and Queen finished the opening dance, the rest of the nobility flooded the floor.
Dancing was a core component of highborn etiquette, and most of the lords moved with practiced, elegant grace.
Arthur remained seated, sipping his lemon water and watching the swirling sea of silk and velvet.
Everyone seated near him had rushed to join the dance, leaving only Ser Lucas Dayne to keep him company.
As a young boy, there were very few appropriate dance partners available to him anyway, so he was content to simply watch the spectacle.
(Across the Seven Kingdoms, with the singular exception of Dorne, it was incredibly rare to see young girls holding the status of a primary heir, meaning the pool of high-status peers his age was essentially nonexistent).
As Arthur took another sip of his lemon water, a middle-aged man quietly approached his table.
The man wore a fine doublet of sky-blue velvet, and the sigil on his breast instantly identified him: Selwyn Tarth, the "Evenstar."
The quartered sigil displayed a yellow sunburst on a rose field, and a white crescent moon on a sky-blue field.
Tarth was a breathtakingly beautiful island located in the Stormlands, famous for its towering mountains, crystal-clear lakes, cascading waterfalls, and deep, shadowed valleys.
Because of the vibrant, impossibly blue waters surrounding it, it was universally known as the "Sapphire Isle."
Its massive mountains provided a natural shield against the brutal gales that routinely battered the Stormlands coast; historically, the fleets of the Storm Kings often used the western shores of Tarth as a safe harbor to ride out the worst of the weather.
"Good evening to you, Arthur," Lord Selwyn greeted him with a warm, incredibly enthusiastic smile.
"Good evening, Lord Selwyn," Arthur replied, quickly standing to return the courtesy.