The heavy bronze-oak doors slowly opened amid a deep, muffled sound.
That low grinding noise drowned out the murmur of voices within the Throne Hall.
At the sound, the hundreds of people present all fell silent at once and turned their heads toward the great doors.
"King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
"His Grace Robert Baratheon I, of House Baratheon!"
The proclamation of the Gold Cloaks, coupled with the silence and attention of the hundreds gathered within the hall, immediately filled the air with a solemn and majestic atmosphere.
Through the open bronze-oak doors, Ser Barristan Selmy led the Kingsguard into the hall.
Halting, the white-cloaked, white-armored Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—Ser Barristan Selmy—swept his sorrow-tinged blue eyes around the chamber.
All eyes in turn fixed upon the legendary knight—Barristan the Bold—until he stepped aside and bowed his head.
Then, in that silent space, came a set of heavy footsteps whose sound alone conveyed their weight.
King Robert Baratheon I slowly entered everyone's sight.
He wore a crown and robes embroidered with golden thread, walking at the center of the long red carpet.
The crown of pure gold, its overlapping stag-antler design, gleamed with orange gemstones that shone brilliantly.
Across his left shoulder hung a silk sash about two palms wide, fixed to his chest by a ruby brooch carved in the likeness of a crowned stag.
Its two ends draped over his shoulders, crossing slightly before being bound by the belt at his waist.
His tall frame, the neatly trimmed, thick black beard, and the well-groomed black hair—
All together lent Robert an aura of commanding authority.
At his appearance, the crowd that had been craning their necks instantly straightened, held their breath, and lowered their eyes in salute before the King.
Looking upon the many lords and nobles of the Seven Kingdoms bowing their heads to him, Robert's lips curved slightly—half disdain, half faint amusement.
Yet he said nothing.
After a brief pause, he continued forward toward the Iron Throne at the far end of the long carpet.
The Iron Throne stood atop an iron dais, reached by a narrow stairway leading to that mass of twisted metal, spikes, and blades.
Amid the solemn silence, everyone listened to the echo of his steps.
The bolder ones—like Arya Stark—peeked up quietly to watch the King move through the crowd.
Only when she saw him ascend the steps and turn to sit upon the throne did she lower her gaze again.
Seated upon the throne, Robert propped one hand on the armrest and waved the other with visible impatience.
"Rise."
Ser Barristan, who stood behind the King, turned at the gesture and called out loudly to the nobles bowing below.
Then he stepped back a pace, standing guard before the dais of the Iron Throne, one hand upon his sword, eyes intent and watchful.
And following the King, Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King, saw this, gave a slight nod to Kal and the others seated to either side of the throne, and then took his own seat as well.
As the Hand of the King and a member of the Small Council, he was entitled to sit.
Kal and the others, of course, were as well.
Once all the Small Council members present had taken their seats, the hundreds of gazes in the hall turned toward King Robert seated high upon the Iron Throne.
"What are we supposed to be doing now?"
Faced with so many eyes, Robert couldn't be bothered to think and simply turned his head to ask his Hand.
Eddard nodded and unfolded a parchment scroll he had brought.
"Your Grace, I believe we should first welcome the new Grand Maester sent by the Citadel."
At these words, Robert nodded calmly and looked down at the gathered crowd.
Eddard Stark's voice from the high dais was not lowered, and it echoed through the silent hall.
Then, from among the people, a man wearing a fine green silk maester's robe stood up. Around his neck hung a chain forged from twenty-four different metals—Grand Maester Payton.
He walked to the center of the Throne Hall, faced the Iron Throne, and bowed deeply before the King seated above.
"Your Grace, Grand Maester Payton greets you and stands ready to serve at your command."
As Payton bent forward, the chain around his neck hung from his throat down to his chest.
Though seated on the Small Council, the Grand Maester was not appointed or dismissed by the King.
As the Citadel's representative serving the crown, the Grand Maester was in fact elected by the Conclave, and only the Conclave could decide his appointment or removal.
Moreover, Grand Maesters were usually senior members within the order of the Citadel, serving primarily as the King's advisor and attending the Small Council in that capacity.
The maester's chain hanging around Payton's neck merely symbolized his special status—it did not truly reflect his learning as Grand Maester.
The previous royal advisor, Grand Maester Pycelle, had been the same.
Although Payton was offering greetings to the King, it was still Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand, who replied to him.
"It is an honor to have your service and work alongside you, Grand Maester Payton. Please, come up to the dais and take your seat."
At the Hand's invitation, Payton wasted no time. After giving thanks, he stepped directly onto the platform.
Turning, he offered a courteous bow to the gathered nobles before taking his seat calmly at the far end beside Stannis Baratheon and Renly Baratheon.
Naturally, the reception of a Grand Maester was not handled so casually.
In fact, two days earlier, Eddard had already made arrangements to welcome the new Grand Maester, hosting a formal reception and ensuring he had met the King in private.
Today's ceremony was merely to make things official—and to let him show his face before the lords and nobles of the Seven Kingdoms.
As the youngest member of the Small Council, Kal let his gaze linger briefly on the Grand Maester and offered him a friendly smile.
Noticing Kal's gaze, Payton also gave him a solemn nod in return.
As the newly appointed Grand Maester, he had until now been immersed in research at the Citadel and was not particularly enthusiastic about this position.
But there was no helping it—since he had come, he had to fulfill his duties.
And the first thing he needed to do, of course, was to become acquainted with the colleagues he would be working with in the future.
As the youngest member of the council—and one who had earned his position as Master of Coin through distinguished military merit—Kal Stone had already caught his attention before Payton ever arrived in King's Landing.
He was somewhat curious about this royal bastard.
He had simply never found the proper occasion to speak with him.
Kal, unaware that this newly appointed Grand Maester was curious about him, merely greeted him politely, then shifted his gaze away from the man's already bald head.
Just then, the King urged his Hand in a low voice.
"Go on, Ned. I don't want to waste time here—don't tell me you've no idea how hot these clothes are."
Eddard could only feel helpless at the King's impatience.
Raising a hand to rub his temples, he no longer looked at the parchment in his hand.
Instead, he turned toward Kal and spoke aloud: "Next is the matter concerning Ser Kal's proposed Grand Tournament of Victory. Kal has formed an organization called the Royal Tourney Council, which will ensure the fairness and integrity of the competition."
"This is something we need to announce to all the participants."
"And the drafted regulations and rules must also be made known."
At present, there were only a few major matters in King's Landing, and most centered around the upcoming grand event—the 'Grand Tournament of Victory.'
However, the early preparations and organization for the Games had already been largely completed over the past two months.
What remained now was to take this opportunity to promote the event further.
At the mention of it, King Robert's interest was piqued as well, and he nodded with satisfaction.
"This business has dragged on long enough—it's time to get it started. King's Landing's been growing dull lately."
Ignoring the King's complaint, Eddard gestured to Kal seated beside him.
"Ser Kal, you may now present the details of the Grand Tournament."
In truth, everything had already been prepared long ago, and notices had already been sent throughout King's Landing and the Seven Kingdoms.
This meeting was merely to follow the proper formalities and brief the gathered nobles on several key details.
Kal was already thoroughly familiar with the matter. Nodding silently, he drew a stack of documents from beneath his seat, rose, and walked toward the dais of the Iron Throne.
"First of all, regarding the Royal Tourney Council for this Grand Tournament, we have invited the following individuals to organize the first session of the event."
"The list is as follows: Lord Eddard Stark, Ser Barristan Selmy, Kal Stone—and eleven members in total."
"His Grace King Robert Baratheon the First shall serve as Chairman of the First Grand Tournament Council."
"Next—"
At the mention of this novel undertaking, the nobles below, who had maintained a solemn air, began exchanging glances and quietly murmuring among themselves.
Yet as the new Master of Coin—also the initiator and organizer of this new kind of tournament—Kal Stone continued to elaborate on the regulations of the Grand Tournament, the more observant among them soon realized that this was not some impulsive notion thrown together at whim.
Among the crowd stood Illyrio Mopatis, the Magister of Pentos, who had been specially invited to attend this royal assembly.
Narrowing his eyes, he sensed something in the air and could not help but recall how insistently Varys had urged him to come to King's Landing.
Even though Kal had done his best to keep things concise, he still spoke at length from the dais.
Upon the Iron Throne, Robert was already half-asleep.
He had no interest whatsoever in the things Kal was saying; the only matter he cared about was when this so-called Grand Tournament would actually be held.
Fortunately, Kal soon satisfied his curiosity.
"That concludes the general outline of this Grand Tournament. Next—" He looked out at the hundreds of eyes fixed upon him and drew a deep breath.
"The First Grand Tournament of Victory in King's Landing shall be held two weeks from now, at the newly expanded grounds outside the King's Gate!"
Finally finished, Kal exhaled in relief and hurried back to his seat.
If this matter were not tied to his own plans, truth be told, he would never have wanted to take on such troublesome business.
As his final announcement came to an end, the nobles—who had been listening attentively—blinked in brief surprise, then began raising their hands in applause.
The Grand Tournament organized by Kal Stone were, in truth, closely linked to their own interests.
Not only was there the rumored prize of five hundred thousand gold dragons for the victor, but also the honor and prestige that came with it.
Both were things these nobles valued greatly.
Although the Iron Throne had, surprisingly, permitted commoners to compete alongside them, these highborn lords understood perfectly well that peasants who spent their lives plowing fields and tending sheep could never hope to rival them.
Thus, most of those present already regarded the prizes for the champions of the more than one hundred contests as things practically in their own pockets.
How could they not care?
After all, these were solid, gleaming gold dragons.
Who would ever turn their back on coin?
As Kal sat back down, the great hall filled with the loud hum of conversation among the hundreds present, until Ser Barristan Selmy once again stepped forward and shouted for silence, restoring order to the Throne Hall.
Hundreds of eyes turned once more toward the Iron Throne on the high dais.
Robert, who had been dozing off, awoke at the sudden hush.
"So, we're finally getting to the real business, are we?" A flash of harshness flickered in the King's eyes as his rough hand ground against the armrest of the Iron Throne.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Eddard Stark's tone was thick with complexity.
"Then—bring up Tywin Lannister."
At the King's command, the hall—already silent—grew still once more.
Countless eyes, filled with mixed emotions, turned toward the great bronze-oak doors through which the King had entered earlier.
Then a man with a weathered face, thick golden sideburns running into a tangled beard, and even short, uneven hair sprouting from his once-bald crown, slowly entered under the escort of two Kingsguard knights.
Every gaze fixed upon this man—once the proud, imperious golden lion—now bound hand and foot, reduced to such a pitiful state.
Yet the man who had once been Lord Tywin Lannister paid no heed to their pitying, mocking, or greedy stares.
In silence, he dragged the iron chains at his feet, taking one steady step after another toward the Iron Throne.
Even his eyes did not waver in the slightest.
At last, he stood beneath Robert, before the Iron Throne itself.
Looking at the man who had become a defeated prisoner, Kal's gaze grew deep.
He still vaguely remembered the Tywin he had once seen in the show of his past life—the man's first appearance before the Iron Throne in King's Landing.
Riding a tall warhorse, filled with confidence, clad in gleaming armor, every movement radiating authority and grace—
His very presence had overshadowed the entire court, reducing everyone else to dust.
When faced with King Joffrey's appointment, he had accepted the Hand's brooch with casual disdain and turned away without a glance.
But the Tywin standing before him now was nothing more than a fallen man.
A defeated soul awaiting his judgment.
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