Chapter 31: The Echoes of Defiance
POV: Robert Baratheon
The small council chamber in King's Landing felt like a cage. Robert Baratheon paced, his heavy boots thudding against the tiled floor, his face a thunderous mask of humiliation and impotent rage. It had been weeks since his return from the Riverlands, since that accursed encounter at Leywin, and the memory of the Immortal Lord's mocking laughter, the sheer contempt in his golden, cat-like eyes, and the terrifying presence of his black-scaled dragon daughter, Sylvie, still burned like a brand on his soul. He also distinctly recalled the arrogant, floating, miniature shadow of a companion, a tiny black creature that seemed to embody defiance itself—a presence he now knew was named Regis.
"The man is a plague!" Robert roared, slamming a fist onto the heavy oak table, making the goblets jump. Pycelle flinched, Varys merely sighed, and Lord Stannis, ever stoic, remained impassive. "A bloody sorcerer, holed up in his ancient ruins, defying his King!"
Grand Maester Pycelle nervously cleared his throat. "Your Grace, the Lord of Leywin's power is… well documented. Passed down through histories. He is not merely a sorcerer, but his very lands, by ancient decree and common understanding, are considered sovereign. They were never… subjects of the Iron Throne."
"Silence, old fool!" Robert interrupted, his face mottled with fury. "He's a man! Flesh and blood! He bleeds like any other!"
Before the words had fully left his mouth, a hushed whisper, a swift, almost silent report, made its way through Varys's network and reached the council. A servant, pale and trembling, approached the Master of Whisperers, relaying the news. Varys listened, his plump face betraying nothing, then turned to the King.
"Your Grace," Varys said, his voice soft, almost apologetic. "A raven has just arrived from the coast. And a traveler from the Free Cities confirms… Queen Rhaella Targaryen, along with Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys, has reached the shores of Westeros. They have… sought and found protection within the lands of Leywin."
The chamber fell silent. Robert froze, his eyes widening, then narrowing into slits of pure, unadulterated venom. For a long moment, he said nothing, the only sound the furious grinding of his teeth. Then, he roared, a sound that shook the very foundations of the Red Keep.
"BY THE GODS! HE DARES?! HE DARES SHELTER THEM?! THE DRAGONSPAWN! MY ENEMIES!" He slammed his fist down again, harder this time, splintering the oak. "I will raise every man in the realm! I will burn his forests! I will level his castle to the ground! I will rip those last two Targaryen whelps from his grasp myself!"
Cersei Lannister, seated opposite him, finally scoffed, a dismissive flick of her golden hair. Her contempt for anything she couldn't understand or control was palpable. "Robert, calm yourself. He's just an old man with parlor tricks, a sorcerer! He's not immune to steel. Send Lord Tywin and his armies. A few thousand men, and he'll be dead by morning. This 'Immortal Lord' is nothing but a myth to frighten children."
A collective gasp rippled through the other council members – even Pycelle looked horrified. Lord Stannis finally spoke, his voice grim and low. "Cersei, you speak foolishness."
"Foolishness?" Cersei's eyes flashed, her pride wounded. "He defied the King! He dies for it!"
"He did not defy you, Queen Cersei, for he is not your subject," Lord Stannis countered, his gaze unwavering. "The lands of Leywin have never been conquered. They are sovereign, a realm unto themselves, older than the Seven Kingdoms combined. The legends speak of him from before the Andals came. From before the First Men built their castles. There are tales of his daughter, Sylvie, a black dragon who can walk in human form, a power seen but once in millennia. And of his other children, Reynold and Tesia, ancient, legendary adventurers themselves, said to have journeyed from continent to continent, witnessing the rise and fall of countless civilizations. They are woven into the very fabric of Leywin's magic, passed down through the oldest lore of Westeros. The Conqueror himself, Aegon Targaryen, when he forged the Seven Kingdoms, did not lay siege to Leywin. He recognized its ancient sovereignty. It is said that even the greatest conquerors, kings and emperors from houses now lost to time, did not simply bow to him, but bowed in his presence, acknowledging a power far beyond their own."
Even Varys, usually so neutral, chimed in, his soft voice chilling the air. "Indeed, Your Grace. The Leywins are not merely powerful; they are woven into the very fabric of this land's oldest magic, and their companions, like the impish Regis, are just as unique. The ancient pacts bind them, and by extension, bind us all to their neutrality. No king has ever ruled Leywin. They stand apart. The saying goes: 'They say if you enter the protection of Leywin, even the Stranger will think twice if he wants to take your life.'"
Robert's face, already purple with rage, now twisted into a mask of bitter comprehension. He remembered the cold scorn in Arthur's eyes, the impossible power of the dragon beside him, and the infuriating, defiant glint in that small shadow's presence. He remembered the feeling of utter helplessness. Cersei's words, born of ignorance, merely underscored his own humiliation and the galling truth: he couldn't attack Leywin because it wasn't his to attack. He couldn't reach them. The dragonspawn were safe, protected by a force older and more formidable than any army he could muster, a family of powers beyond his reckoning, residing in a realm that simply did not acknowledge his crown.
He let out a guttural growl, seizing a heavy bronze goblet from the table and hurling it across the room, where it struck the stone wall with a resounding crash. The small council sat in stunned silence, watching their King, a storm of impotence and fury contained within the confines of his own humiliation. The game of thrones, he now knew, had players utterly beyond his reach, and a territory he could not claim. This bitter taste of powerlessness would only drive him further into the drink and the hunt, away from the throne he had won but could not fully command.