…
Denys leaned closer, his voice low and resolute. "When you go to the Wall in a year's time, I'll join you. Perhaps by then I'll have gathered a batch of men from the Vale to accompany us. I want my people to see that I'm serious about this."
Mors's eyes widened, a genuine spark of excitement lighting his face. "Excellent. Then in a year we—"
"Lyanna, my queen!"
The familiar booming voice cracked through the hum of the market like thunder over calm water. Conversation died; movement halted.
Mors's face froze mid-speech. He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled through his nose.
'Seven save us… the storm has arrived.'
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A group of finely dressed people was making their way toward Mors and Denys's party.
Leading them was a robust bear of a man, his beard thick and healthy, his shoulders broad, his arms the size of a lesser man's thighs. He wore a wide smile, eyes crinkled in unrestrained mirth. Upon his brow rested a distinctive crown—a ring of antlers converging at the center, each tipped with amber stones that caught the sunlight like drops of fire.
"…Robert."
The name escaped someone behind Mors with the weight of a sigh.
He turned just in time to see Lyanna Stark drag a hand down her face and attempt to hide behind the smaller Allyria Dayne.
"You have the wrong person," Lyanna said in a hoarse, unconvincing voice. "This is… ah, Lorne."
Robert Baratheon let out a booming laugh that rolled across the square.
"Hahaha! Lyanna, you're as funny as ever!"
Then, seeing the crowd staring at him in shock and confusion, he bellowed, "What are you all gawking at?! Never seen the Storm King before?"
He swept his arm wide. "Well, don't just stand there—get back to your mummering! Go on, mummers—mummer!"
The townsfolk stumbled back nervously, and the nearby mummers hurried to resume their play, visibly shaken.
Mors's eye twitched as he took in the scene, while Denys shot him a puzzled look.
"Mors," Denys asked questioningly under his breath, "was Robert always like this? He seems… more overbearing."
Mors exhaled slowly. "He's been ruling with total power for four years now. That changes most men."
His gaze shifted toward the entourage trailing behind Robert—King Brandon Stark, Prince Hoster Tully, and Prince Stannis Baratheon, among others.
Denys nodded in understanding.
Lyanna finally stepped forward, hands on her hips. "Robert, you brute! You've frightened everyone! Look—those poor mummers are holding their swords backward because of you!"
Startled by her outburst, the mummers indeed glanced down and hastily corrected their grip.
Robert, taking notice, barked another command.
"What are you doing?! You're making her angry! If you don't want me to crush you with my hammer, mummer properly!"
One of the mummers promptly fainted from fear.
By now, Ashara, Alyssa, Allyria, Lynesse, and a hesitant Benjen Stark had gathered near Mors.
Brandon, Hoster, and Stannis joined them shortly after.
Benjen tugged Brandon's sleeve. "Brother, should we stop them? Lyanna and Robert—they're…" He trailed off nervously, glancing toward the arguing pair.
Brandon sighed. "If you find a way, let me know."
Lyanna jabbed a finger toward Robert. "You see what you've done?! You killed the mummer! You—you… Murmur Killer!"
Robert blinked, offended. "What? Murmur Killer? He just fainted! At worst, I'm a Murmur—uh…" He paused, scratching his chin. "Stannis! You boring bastard, what would I be called if I make them faint?"
Stannis, standing beside Mors, closed his eyes, clearly mortified. He muttered under his breath, "Seven save me," before answering through gritted teeth.
"I suppose… Murmur-Bane would suit you, brother."
Robert's grin returned instantly. "Ha! See? Murmur-Bane! That's me! Wherever I go, they faint before my glory!" He laughed loudly, slapping his knee in delight.
Lyanna stared at him flatly. "You're impossible."
Rolling her eyes, she turned and began to walk away. "Allyria, Lynesse, I'll see you later."
Then, glancing back to Mors's group, she added politely, "King Mors, King Denys, Queen Ashara, Queen Alyssa—thank you for the lovely time."
She left, trailed by her guards.
"Lyanna! Wait! I came to see you!" Robert called after her, bewildered.
Mors watched the exchange, amusement tugging at his mouth. "You know," he said to Brandon, "they complement each other—just in a very toxic sort of way."
Brandon exhaled deeply. "I honestly don't know what you mean," he said, eyes still following his sister and the Storm King.
Mors chuckled quietly.
Robert suddenly spun around and pointed an accusing finger. "It was your fault, wasn't it?!"
Mors blinked. "What?"
"That's right!" Robert continued. "We were finally connecting—then your presence made her flee in embarrassment!"
Mors looked from Robert to Ashara, to Brandon, to Stannis, to the visibly uncomfortable Hoster Tully, then back to Robert. His lips twitched.
"Is that what you think happened?"
Robert opened his mouth, "Mors, you bastard, I'll—"
"Wait," Mors interrupted mildly. "You're not about to shout yourself into another frenzy, are you? Because the last thing I need is you charging at me again while yelling 'Ours is the Fury!' so I can humiliate you in front of all these people."
Robert froze, realizing that was exactly what he'd been about to do. He rubbed his chin instead.
"Ah… I'll let you off this time. I need to find Lyanna anyway."
His grin returned. "She'll be my Storm Queen yet! Hahaha!"
And with that, he stomped off after her.
Silence lingered a long moment.
Then Allyria broke it softly. "Why do I feel like a storm just passed through here…?"
Ashara laughed, looping an arm around her sister. "That's a very good analogy, Ria."
Mors and Denys both sighed at once, exchanged a look, then turned to Brandon—who was still staring after Robert with resigned dread.
Feeling their eyes, Brandon shook his head. "It might be harder to bring Robert into this than we thought."
Both kings nodded in agreement.
Prince Hoster Tully stepped forward with practiced diplomacy. "Your Graces, I must apologize on behalf of His Grace Robert Baratheon. He—"
He hesitated, clearly at a loss for how to explain him.
Mors smiled politely. "No need, Prince Tully. We've known Robert a long time."
Brandon nodded. "That's right, goodfather. Don't trouble yourself."
Then Stannis stepped forward and, to Mors's surprise, dropped to one knee. "Your Grace, King Mors—Champion of the Seven—I am honored to stand before you once again."
Hoster's expression tightened, clearly displeased to see his son-in-law kneeling before another king.
Mors, slightly uncomfortable, helped Stannis to his feet. "Prince Stannis, please—there's no need for that. We are friends before anything else."
Denys raised a brow at the display but said nothing, merely nodding in approval.
'I'd thought he'd be over this by now,' Mors mused, 'but his zeal seems only to have grown. Still… if Robert proves difficult, Stannis might be useful.'
Hoster, eager to steer the conversation elsewhere, spoke again. "If I may ask, Your Graces, what did you mean earlier—that it would be difficult to bring Robert in? Into what, exactly?"
A knowing look passed between Mors, Denys, and Brandon.
Mors answered smoothly, "We were discussing the upcoming Council of Kings—how best to ensure the Stormlands and Dorne stand together in peace."
'I'll let Brandon bring Hoster in when the time is right,' Mors thought, glancing at Stannis. 'Though perhaps I should speak to Stannis myself.'
Hoster nodded slowly. "Ah, I see. Yes, I've been trying to persuade His Grace to declare a formal peace between our kingdoms… but he has his own way of seeing things."
Brandon clapped his goodfather on the shoulder with a wry smile. "You've my sympathy, goodfather. Serving as Robert's Hand can't be easy, aye?"
Hoster exhaled, as though there was much more he could say—but didn't.
Mors looked around, realizing Catelyn and Lysa were not present. "Where are Queen Catelyn and Princess Lysa?"
Brandon smiled faintly. "They stayed behind to catch up—it's been some time since they've seen each other."
"In that case," Mors said, "why don't you join us for a walk through the grounds? The Reach is worth seeing before the council begins tomorrow."
Brandon nodded. "Aye, that sounds good. A little calm before the next storm."
Together, the kings and their company moved on through the bright gardens of Highgarden, the laughter of mummers slowly returning behind them—though the air still held the echo of the recently passed storm.
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The Next Day
Deep within the heart of Highgarden, a winding path of white marble led through a labyrinth of flowering hedges and gilded fountains to a magnificent gazebo. The structure stood upon a gentle rise, its columns entwined with climbing roses of crimson and gold. All around it, the gardens blazed with life—orchids, lilies, and myriads of blooms forming living tapestries beneath the warm morning sun. The air was sweet with perfume and alive with the hum of bees and the murmur of distant water.
This secluded sanctuary was one of Highgarden's most cherished spaces—a private retreat reserved for the royal family and their most distinguished guests. Today, however, it had been transformed for a far greater purpose.
Long tables of polished oak had been arranged in a perfect circle beneath the gazebo's open canopy, draped in silken banners bearing the colors of every realm in Westeros. Each seat was a work of art unto itself, carved with the sigil of its respective kingdom—a circle of thrones symbolizing parity among the crowns.
Upon the tables rested an abundant spread of the Reach's finest—bowls of ripe fruit, trays of sugared figs and sliced melons, and gleaming pitchers filled with chilled juices and wines of every hue. The fragrance of honey and crushed grape mingled with the scent of roses drifting on the breeze.
Ten chairs had been prepared for ten realms: the Kingdom of the Reach, the Kingdom of Dorne, the Kingdom of the North, the Kingdom of the Mountain and Vale, the Kingdom of the Stormlands, the Kingdom of the Rock, the Kingdom of the Iron Islands, the Principality of Dragonstone, the Principality of the Trident, and the Principality of the Stepstones.
Yet not all realms would be represented this day. The chair of the Iron Islands would remain empty, its silence as deliberate as the gathering itself.
Here, beneath rose-dappled light and the watchful eyes of the Seven carved along the marble balustrade, the great rulers of the realm would soon assemble.
It was the appointed hour for the long-anticipated Council of Kings, hosted by King Mace Tyrell of the Reach—an occasion meant to symbolize peace, unity, and the dawn of a new age.
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Mace clapped both hands together, puffing with the pride of a peacock finally allowed to preen. "Hahaha—welcome, welcome, all my distinguished and royal guests. It is my highest honor to preside over the first gathering of kings Westeros has seen since the conquering tyrant, Aegon Targaryen, changed our way of life forever. Getting rid of those evil Targaryens was the best thing we ever did—without—"
He was cut off by the lean, urgent whisper of Leyton Hightower at his elbow. Mace's smile faltered; his eyes widened, color flooding his cheeks. He blinked once, twice, then tried to recover with a nervous laugh.
"My apologies, King Mors! I didn't mean to say that the Targaryens are evil—Seven forbid! I only meant that the blood of the dragon can be… ah, dangerous. No—no, that's not right either. The Mad King was evil, yes, that's what I meant, and by extension—his kin—oh!" His eyes darted back to Mors. "Cousins, of course. You and he were cousins, weren't you?"
As if realizing too late that he'd just stepped on another rake, he spun toward Robert in sudden inspiration. "And King Robert! Though I know you are lesser than King Mors, the blood is still there; it wasn't meant—"
Robert's face went crimson. He roared, "What in the seven hells are you talking about? I am no lesser than King Mors, and I have none of that evil blood in me! If you don't want to see our fury destroy your gardens, keep your dull thoughts to yourself!"
Brandon stepped between them with the slow patience of a man long accustomed to cooling the tempers of proud lords. "Robert—" he began. "I reckon King Mace meant no offence. Let's keep our heads, aye?"
A smooth, mocking voice cut through the tension. "Gods, we've barely begun and it's already a tourney of tempers. Tell me, Storm King—how does your realm survive when its ruler explodes faster than wildfire?"
Robert spun, crimson turning to insult. "Boy, just because you wear a crown doesn't make you a king! How dare you speak to me as if we were equals! You should be outside letting your sister play with your pecker!" He barked the last word, sending a shock through the hall.
A glint passed through Jaime's eyes. "Ah yes—the bravado of a man who mistook breaking my father's back for greatness. Had I met you that day, it would be your brother sitting in your place." His smile went cold and sharp. "And as for my sister—at least she loves me, unlike some poor Storm King's betrothed, who is otherwise inclined to flee."
Robert's face blackened. "That's it! I'll kill you right now!"
He lunged to his feet, chair clattering, ready to vault the table—when a single voice cut across the clamor.
"Enough."
The word carried pressure that felt almost otherworldly. Conversation died. A dozen heads turned to the speaker.
King Mors sat with his fingers interlocked, his gaze steady, his brow drawn tight. When he spoke, his voice was low—controlled—but every word felt like being hit in the gut by a hammer. "If you want to fight, do it outside. If you want war, call it by name. But don't waste everyone's time playing games in front of the realm's kings. We're here to fix what's broken—to keep our people fed, our trade alive, our borders safe.
So put the pride away for a few hours and do the job you came for. Agreed?"
Robert, cheeks still flushed, shot a final barb. "Lannister—your head is saved this day. Be grateful to this sand-dragon."
Jaime allowed himself a thin smile. "Since it is King Mors who asks, I shall postpone the gutting of a stag." He flicked a look at Robert and delivered the sting with civility.
Mace, desperate to regain the floor, began again. "Marvelous—thank you, King Mors. As I was saying—"
Leyton leaned in once more, murmuring something in his ear. Whatever it was drained the enthusiasm from Mace's face. He sighed, nodded, and stepped back as Leyton retreated with a courteous bow.
Clearing his throat, Mace forced a smile. "If you'll indulge me, I'll now pass the word to my goodfather, Lord Leyton Hightower, who will take it from here."
He gestured toward Leyton, who took the center with an easy smile and the calm of a man well accustomed to addressing lords and being in command.
"Thank you, Your Grace, King Mace Tyrell, for that… wonderful welcome," Leyton began smoothly. "For the remainder of the day, I've been appointed Head of Council to guide our discussion and keep us on course. To my right is Lord Mathis Rowan, who will assist me, and to my left is Maester Lomys, our scribe. He'll see that every word spoken here is recorded, so each of you will receive a signed copy when we conclude."
He raised his voice just enough to carry across the circular table.
"Before we begin, let the record show who stands among us this day, so that history will know the names of those who chose to build rather than break."
Then, with a glance to Maester Lomys, he began the roll.
"I will now list all members participating in the first Council of Kings.
From the Kingdom of the Reach—King Mace Tyrell.
From the Kingdom of the Stormlands—King Robert—"
He was cut off by Robert himself, who straightened in his chair and spoke loud enough to rattle the crystal goblets.
"Storm. It's Storm King Robert Baratheon."
The correction earned an eye-roll from Jaime, a collective sigh from several others, and a visible facepalm from Stannis. Mace, however, nodded enthusiastically.
"That's right, goodfather—it's Storm King. A well-earned title!"
Leyton cleared his throat, schooling his expression into politeness.
"Ah, yes—pardon me, Your Grace. It will be corrected."
He glanced down at his parchment and continued, now with a subtle smile tugging at his lips.
"From the Kingdom of the Stormlands—the Storm King, Robert Baratheon."
Robert nodded proudly in approval.
"From the Kingdom of Dorne—King Mors Martell.
From the Kingdom of the Rock—King Jaime Lannister.
From the Kingdom of the Mountain and Vale—King Denys Arryn.
From the Kingdom of the North—the Winter King, Brandon Stark."
Leyton paused briefly before moving on.
"Next, our vassal realms.
From the Principality of the Stepstones, representing the underage Prince Daeron Martell—Ser Jeremy Norridge.
From the Principality of the Trident—Prince Hoster Tully.
And finally, from the Principality of Dragonstone—Prince Stannis Baratheon."
He let the last name settle, then added with calm formality:
"The Kingdom of the Iron Islands was invited, but no response was sent. Hence, their seat remains empty."
There was a short silence before he concluded, voice lifting again with warm dignity.
"A round of applause, if you will—for yourselves. For choosing unity over distance, and gathering here in the hope of shaping a better realm."
Leyton began the applause himself, measured and dignified. Mace, however, clapped with such vigor that it nearly startled the doves roosting in the rafters, his grin blooming as brightly as his gardens. Others joined in—some politely, others out of habit—until the chamber filled with a wavering harmony of approval and restraint.
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A Few Hours Later
"—and that concludes our discussion on trade. With this, regardless of what else may come, we agree to permit the free and unrestrained movement of goods through our borders. Any attempt by any party to stop, hinder, or steal shall be met with the combined might of our martial and naval forces. Agreed?" Leyton finished.
"Aye, aye!" Robert's tired voice cut across the table before anyone else could answer. "How much more of this? I feel like I need to skin a cat for a while to wake up." He tossed a look at Jaime.
One by one the others voiced their assent. "Aye."
Jaime gave a faint, amused smile. "Perhaps we ought let Robert kick some puppies instead. Cats are cunning; lions are worse."
"Bring it on! I'll show you—" Robert roared, springing to his feet.
"Brother, the food is coming," Stannis said, weary and blunt, stepping between the two.
"Oh—food!" Robert abandoned the quarrel as if struck by a better idea. He sat back down as the servants rolled in platters.
Leyton, seeing decorum slipping, cleared his throat. "Then it is settled. We break for lunch. After the meal we will resume with military matters and the question of defenses."
A relieved murmur rose around the circle as the council eased into a pause; for a while, at least, swords and tempers were put away for wine and roasted meat.
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Leyton rose once the servants had cleared the tables, folding his hands with practiced calm.
"Now that we've all settled after the meal, it's time to continue," he began. "As mentioned before, our final topics concern military matters and the threats our kingdoms may face—or are already facing—that endanger our independence and sovereignty."
His gaze swept the circle, steady and deliberate. "From what we've gathered, there are five key matters to address."
He paused, then looked between Mors and Robert.
"The first being the still-unresolved conflict between the Stormlands and Dorne."
The table quieted instantly. All eyes turned to Mors and Robert.
Robert glanced around the room, his grin widening. "Hahaha! There's no need to worry about that. I'll end Mors soon enough—finally show everyone why the Stormlands is the greatest kingdom in Westeros! Hahaha!"
Mace Tyrell puffed up, as if about to object. "Now, wait a moment—the Reach is—"
A single look from Leyton cut him short.
Mace hesitated, coughed once, and sat back. "Never mind."
Leyton turned his attention to Mors, who was watching Robert with a faintly amused expression. Across from them, Ser Jeremy simply shook his head.
"Pardon me, Your Grace," Leyton said evenly, turning back to Robert. "Storm King Robert—are you planning to move your armies against Dorne again?"
Robert's laughter faltered. He scratched his beard, frowning. "Well… not right now."
Leyton nodded slightly and turned to another man seated nearby. "Lord Mathis, have there been any recorded skirmishes between Dorne and the Stormlands in recent years?"
Lord Mathis Rowan flipped through his notes. "Lord Leyton, we may have missed small incidents, but there have been no documented clashes in the past two years. Both realms have been operating as if at peace."
Robert blinked, genuinely surprised. "What? Is that right?"
He turned toward Stannis, who gave a small nod of confirmation.
Leyton continued calmly. "Then why not make it official? If hostilities have ceased, a formal peace would strengthen trade and stability. Should war ever become necessary again, it can be declared properly at that time. But peace will allow both realms to prosper in the meantime."
Mors leaned back slightly, his tone even but certain. "I have no objection."
Robert looked at him, studying his distant cousin's unblinking violet eyes. For a long moment, he said nothing—then scoffed.
"Fine! We can spare them for now." He crossed his arms with a grumble. "We can always declare war later."
The gesture drew faint smiles around the table.
Mace clapped his hands suddenly. "Marvelous! Then let it be known that, here at the Council of Highgarden, the Stormlands and Dorne have achieved peace!" He began to applaud enthusiastically, forcing the others to join in out of politeness.
Leyton cleared his throat pointedly, halting the awkward applause. "Good. Maester Lomys will record the formal declaration later."
Then, they moved on to the other main topics and discussed at length.
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Leyton stood at the front of the gazebo, looking tired but content. The sun had shifted lower, casting long beams of gold across the polished oak table.
"Now," he began, his voice steady though edged with weariness, "before we move to the final matter, let us briefly review what has been agreed upon."
He glanced around the circle, meeting each king's gaze in turn. "First, the growing unrest beyond the Wall—more wildlings slipping south with every passing year. The Night's Watch must be restored to proper strength. Each realm will be asked to send men and provisions to reinforce it."
He glanced toward Brandon, who nodded solemnly.
"The second—bandit groups forming along our borders, raiding trade caravans. Patrols must be coordinated between neighboring kingdoms.
Third—pirate remnants still plague the Narrow Sea, with possible instigation from Lys and Tyrosh. Dorne will take the lead in rooting them out, with support from the North and the Stormlands."
Leyton consulted his parchment again. "Fourth—an easing of tolls across the Stepstones, to encourage merchant passage and facilitate the movement of ships between the western and eastern coasts of Westeros."
Leyton paused, his tone tightening. "And finally—the matter of the Iron Islands."
A heavy silence settled over the gazebo. Even the breeze seemed to falter.
Jaime broke it first, his voice sharp with restrained anger. "They've returned to their old ways. We've had to keep our fleets patrolling the coasts day and night just to protect merchant ships from raids. This year alone, the attacks have increased tenfold."
Hoster nodded grimly. "That's right. Seagard has been almost entirely devoted to repelling them. As King Jaime said, this year we've faced more raids than in the past three combined."
Mace leaned back, puffing his chest. "Well, the Reach has had no such problems," he said proudly.
Leyton coughed softly. "Pardon me, Your Grace, but several lords of the Reach have in fact reported raids along their western shores. They likely chose not to trouble you with... minor matters."
Jaime coughed into his hand, clearly trying to stifle a laugh before composing himself.
Mace blinked, color rising to his ears. "Ah, yes, of course—minor matters. Quite right. Busy as ever, you know."
Brandon cut in, ignoring Mace's fluster. "Aye, now that you mention it, we've seen an uptick as well—not raids, exactly, but more ships off our western coast, and more trees being felled around Cape Kraken." He looked up slowly, realization dawning. "When you put it all together…"
Mors nodded, finishing the thought. "It sounds like they're stockpiling resources. I assume the raids have focused mostly on metal and livestock?"
Jaime and Hoster exchanged a glance—then both nodded in agreement.
Leyton's voice took on a note of concern. "King Mors… are you suggesting the Ironborn are preparing for war?"
Mors leaned forward, considering. "Maybe. Or maybe they just want to return to full-scale reaving. Either way, we can't ignore it. Dorne's fleet is ready to assist in defending the western coasts if needed."
Mace straightened, eager to redeem himself. "The Reach will aid as well. The fleets of The Arbor stand ready."
Robert slammed his fist lightly against the table, grinning. "Ha! Then the Stormlands will gladly join in crushing them. No one raids my shores and gets away with it!"
Leyton nodded, satisfied. "Good. Then let us formalize this agreement and record it for the realm. If the Iron Islands strike against any one of us, the rest shall answer in kind."
The lords murmured in assent as Maester Lomys, serving as scribe, bent over the table—his quill scratching swiftly across parchment as the decision was sealed.
And so, with the matter of the Iron Islands concluded, the first Council of Kings in recorded Westerosi history drew to a close. Despite its turbulent beginning, it ended not in chaos or blood, but in fragile cooperation—and the faint, fleeting promise of peace that, for a time, might endure.